


Clint Barton and the Godlet of Thunder

by GoddessofThunder (navigatio)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Articulation errors, Four needs a 'nuggle, Gen, Good Dad Clint, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Thor (Marvel), Nightmares, No pairings - Freeform, Past Sexual Assault, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Clint, Protective Thor, Specious Science, Team as Family, Uncle Cwint, Widdle Four, de-aged Thor, no graphic descriptions, uncle Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2018-12-12 10:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 35
Words: 156,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11734920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navigatio/pseuds/GoddessofThunder
Summary: Thor is kidnapped right out from under their noses. When the rest of the team track him down, they find a little boy wrapped in a huge red cape. He’s got shaggy blond hair and big sky-blue eyes, and he says his name is “Four.” ("Thor?" “Yes, dat’s what I said.”). Steve tells him they are there to take him home and the kid asks for the “Secret code words”.Luckily Clint is a very good guesser. Now he finds himself the unexpected guardian of a traumatized, pint-sized god of Thunder who just wants his mother and father. Too bad they’re dead.It's the de-aged Thor fic you didn't know you needed in your life.(Archive warning applies starting in Chapter 5.)Hey-oh! Last chapter is finally here. COMPLEEEETE!





	1. Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> Just a bit of fun. And later, a cameo by Loki!
> 
> This story is set about six months after Ragnarok. Ignores the leaked Infinity War trailer.

It’s funny what you remember sometimes, and what you forget. Clint remembers it happened on a Wednesday. Movie night. Stupid, right? Who cares about movie night when your teammate has disappeared? 

 

But it’s Clint’s turn to choose, and he has the movie all picked out: Pulp Fiction. It’s the perfect revenge on Steve, who made them all suffer through The Little Mermaid the previous week. Clint is really looking forward to watching Steve wince at every swear word. He even warned Bucky ahead of time about a few scenes so he didn’t jump out of his skin like he had when DiCaprio got shot in The Departed—also one of Clint’s picks, which is why he was tasked with scraping Bucky off the ceiling. Clint learned his lesson on that.

 

When they get a call out halfway through the first scene, Clint is already annoyed, partly at the anonymous tipster who reported a hydra cell half-way up a cliff in the Adirondacks so they need all the flyers, and partly at Steve who insists Clint come along as spotter. Steve goes along too, which meant either he is going to be pestering Clint constantly for updates, or someone, probably Sam, is gonna to have to carry him around in that stupid harness thing, like an enormous baby in a front pack. Sam had offered Clint a ride one time. _No fucking way_. 

 

Bucky declines (AKA throws a pillow at Steve) when Steve asks if he wants to come along, which proves to Clint that Bucky has more sense than the rest of them put together, even though they usually have to pry the words out of his mouth with a crowbar.

 

In the jet, before they even leave the helipad, Steve reminds Thor (for the umpteenth time) to keep his comms in and let them know when he’s going to be out of sight. 

 

“Thor, we can’t help you if we can’t see or hear you,” Steve says in that overly-patient tone. Clint has been on the receiving end of that tone a time or two himself, so he’s got some sympathy for Thor. 

 

“I am the god of thunder. I have no need for a nursemaid,” Thor replies mildly. Clint reflects that Thor is keeping his temper quite nicely, probably because he has no idea he already _has_ a nursemaid. A huge Star-Spangled nursemaid who can’t even control his own fucking _hair_ , much less a team of misfits such as the Avengers, but that doesn’t stop him from trying.

 

 “Well, you got lost last time, so—“

 

“I was not lost!” Ah, there’s the heat. A trio of little puffy clouds scuttle past the windshield, so Thor is still keeping himself under control, which is a nice improvement from a few months prior. “I am not responsible for the simple fact that Clint moved the jet while I was away.”

 

Nuh-uh. No way is Clint letting Thor get away with that, even if it means risking a thunderstorm. “No I didn’t,” he throws back over his shoulder from his seat in the cockpit. “It was right where we left it.”

 

“When I returned, the jet was not where it had previously been.”

 

“That’s because you were looking in the wrong place!”

 

“Ok, ok, it doesn’t matter,” Steve says in that overly-patient tone, like both of them are acting like children, when it’s clearly Thor who is wrong. “Just keep your earpiece in this time and there won’t be any problems.”

 

“It is uncomfortable,” Thor grumps, then quickly adds, “But I will try to keep it in.” Clint can’t see their faces, but he assumes Steve used “The Eyebrows of Disappointment”, which are highly effective, even, apparently, with Norse gods.

 

* * *

 

 

It doesn’t take them long to figure out that their anonymous tipster was right. Clint has his hands full identifying hostiles and pointing them out to his teammates in the air, which is made more difficult by the fact that Tony will. not. shut. up.

 

“So, Point Break,” Tony says over the comms, “I was thinking tomorrow we could run some more tests on your new hammer. Maybe head out to the midwest and see what she can do. I was considering calling her Ultie. What do you think of that name? Better than ‘Ultimate Mjolnir’. Now that’s a mouthful.”

 

“Shut up, Tony. Sam, Two o’clock.”

 

“I see it.” Sam dodges and weaves while Clint looses a couple of arrows to take out the sniper.

 

“Ok, clear. Vision, do you—“

 

“Yo, Thor,” Tony interrupts, “you still haven’t told me what you think of my plan. Sound good to you? We could make a stop on the way back. I know this place that has homemade peanut butter and jelly ice cream that’s to die for.”

 

“Seriously, Tony, shut it. Vision, do you see the entrance to the cave about twenty feet to your right? I think that’s where they’re coming from.”

 

“I see it, Clint.”

 

“Ok.” Clint scouts the side of the cliff and spots another cave above where Sam is picking up Steve. No activity, but it’s worth checking out. “Sam, can you—“

 

“I’m not getting a response from Thor. Legolas, what do your elf-eyes see?”

 

“Tony, I’m busy!”

 

“Cut the chatter, Tony,” Steve interrupts. “Clint, finish your sentence.”

 

“Sam, there’s a cave entrance about fifty feet above you. Can you and front-pack baby go check it out?”

 

“On our way.”

 

“Front-pack baby,” Tony cuts in. “Cute. I’m going to use that one. Are you done? Am I allowed to speak now? Or is everyone invited to this party except me?”

 

“What do you want?” Clint says distractedly, still scanning the cliff face for more hostiles. He spots two at the base of the cliff and looses a pair of arrows to take them out.

 

“If you had been listening, you would know I said I can’t raise Thor. Do you see him?”

 

Clint takes a quick look around. He saw Thor earlier, of course, but he’s been so focused watching for danger and directing Vision and Sam that he hasn’t even given him a second thought for several minutes. He always just assumes Thor will take care of himself, even if he often doesn’t answer his comm.

 

Thor usually moves so fast he’s just a red and gold blur, distinguishable from Tony by the flapping of the cape, but now Clint can’t spot him. Again, not unusual. Thor never thought he needed to report in to anyone, which gave Steve conniptions, but Clint figures there’s no point in trying to get him to change, given that he’s however-many-thousand years old.

 

“Don’t see him,” Clint says, just as he spots another hostile trying to get a bead on Tony with a grenade launcher, from the mouth of yet another cave higher up. “Tony, above you.”

 

Tony sends a repulsor wave that direction without even looking and takes out the shooter. “I’ve been trying to get Thor’s attention for at least three minutes,” he says, swooping up toward the entrance to the cave. “He hasn’t answered me at all.”

 

“He probably took out his comm again,” Steve says, in a tone that means Thor is going to get a tongue-lashing when they get back to the jet. “This cave is empty, guys. Anyone else have anything?”

 

“Empty here too,” Tony reports. 

 

“Vision?”

 

“The front section of this cave is empty,” Vision says, his voice echoing, “however, the second chamber of the cave branches off into multiple tunnels. Shall I explore them?”

 

“Go ahead,” Steve says, “maybe they connect up somewhere.”

 

Clint keeps scanning the cliffs for Thor and any hostiles, but everything has gone completely still. No movement, nothing. A few minutes ago he was spotting hostiles all over the cliff face, and now they have vanished into thin air, and isn’t that fucking suspicious?

 

“Hostiles all just took off. I don’t like the way this smells.” Clint says. God, he hopes Steve is right that Thor has just taken out his comm and is off exploring on his own. That makes sense, right? It’s not like something could have happened to him. The dude is a Norse god. He survived in open space without any gear; he’s damn near invincible. 

 

“Captain,” comes Vision’s voice. He sounds. . . hesitant? Cyborg robot types aren’t supposed to sound hesitant. 

 

“Go ahead, Vision. Did you find their base?”

 

“No, sir, I have found something else.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Thor’s hammer.”

 

* * *

 

 

Two weeks. Two fucking weeks. No movie nights, no missions, no joy in Mudville. Just all of them either searching—for what Clint isn’t exactly sure, Tony just said “Weather anomalies”, and what the fuck does _that_ mean?—or sitting around the tower moping and worrying. Natasha develops dark circles under her eyes. Wanda repeats over and over, “I should have been there. Why wasn’t I there?” until Sam tells her to shut up.

 

“We were there and we couldn’t even prevent it. What makes you think you could have done any better?”

 

But Steve—Steve is the worst. His eyes are haunted, and nothing anyone says can make it any better. Clint’s pretty sure he isn’t sleeping, because he keeps showing up in the common room at all hours of the night for coffee refills. And Clint only knows that because he too can’t sleep and has gone back to his little nest above the common room, the one with the good sight lines on the elevators and kitchen.

 

Finally, on the fourteenth night, as Steve is filling his coffee cup with industrial strength sludge, Clint drops lightly down from his perch behind him.

 

“Hey, Cap.”

 

Steve jumps and splashes coffee on the counter. Clint is gonna pretend he didn’t see that. 

 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he says casually, as if he didn’t already know that Steve spends nearly every night prowling around like a fucking ghost.

 

Steve wipes up the coffee with a dishtowel. No eye contact. “I was just. . . Tony asked me to look over some weather records. You know, for anomalies. I’m going to bed soon.” 

 

Clint knows that with Steve, no eye contact = lying. He may claim to be all about Truth, Justice, and the American Way, but Steve is a horrible liar. Clint hoists himself up onto the counter and nods at Steve’s coffee cup. “That why you’re drinking toxic waste?”

 

“This is just. . .” Steve breaks off and squints into his cup. “Clint. . .”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You don’t think he. . . you don’t think he left on purpose, do you?”

 

That surprises Clint a little, he has to admit. It isn’t something he has considered. Thor taking off and leaving his hammer behind seems highly unlikely. Maybe if you had asked him six months ago, after Bruce brought Thor back to the tower all beat up with his hair buzzed off and told them Loki was in the wind and Asgard had been destroyed. . . But now? Thor seemed like he was getting better. He didn’t seem likely to just up and run away anymore. And Clint can’t get out of his mind how all of the hostiles melted away just after they realized Thor was missing.

 

“No, I don’t think he would just leave. I think it was an ambush like I said before. They wanted him for some reason, so they're not gonna kill him. He’s out there somewhere. We just need to keep looking.”

 

“Yeah, you’re right. You must be right. He was happier lately, wasn’t he? He wouldn’t just leave. Which means they snatched him right out from under our noses.” Steve shakes his head and takes a swig of his coffee. “Doesn’t make me feel a whole lot better, sorry.”

 

Clint is about to respond, some bullshit about it being not Steve’s fault, but Friday interrupts. “Captain Rogers, Boss would like to see you in his workshop.”

 

Steve’s head jerks up. “Did he say what it was about?”

 

“No, sir, just that it was urgent. Mr. Barton, you are invited as well.”

 

“On our way.”

 

Clint and Steve arrives at the workshop at the same time as Natasha, who’s wearing sweats and an oversized hoodie that make her look like a kid playing dress-up. Sam comes hustling in right after, dressed in Captain America pj pants and a ratty t-shirt; followed by Wanda, in plaid pajamas with her hair up in a messy bun. Vision and Bruce are already there. Vision looks as implacable as always, but Bruce’s hair sticks up in all directions and his shirttail hangs half-out, like he was interrupted in the middle of getting dressed. Of course, Bruce pretty much always looks like he was interrupted in the middle of getting dressed, no matter what time of day it is.

 

“Ah, excellent, so good of you all to join us,” Tony says. “Sorry to drag you all out of bed. Well, most of you, I guess. Cap, do you sleep in grandpa khakis and a baby-doll tee?”

 

“Cut the crap, Tony,” Steve says wearily. “I assume you found something?”

 

“Found something. Yes, we have indeed found something. Wanna show them, Friday?”

 

“Sure thing, Boss.”

 

The lights lower. Tony flicks his fingers (all show, Clint’s sure, because Friday is obviously in control of the displays) and a screen appears in the middle of the room.

 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Vardja, Estonia.”

 

Clint squints at the screen, which displays a satellite image of a wooded area. Most of the sky is clear, but in the bottom left corner he sees some kind of weather system, a dark bank of swirling gray. . .

 

“Does that look normal to you?” Tony asks the room at large, pointing at the corner. “Friday, center and zoom in.”

 

The image shifts and enlarges, and now flashes of lightning are visible mixed in with the clouds.

 

“Supercell tornado?” Natasha guesses.

 

“That’s what I thought at first, but they aren’t exactly common in this area. And there’s no organized cloud pattern. It looks more like—“

 

“Thor having a meltdown,” Bruce interrupts. “I may have seen that once or twice. . .”

 

“Friday, run it back forty-eight hours, one frame per hour.”

 

The landscape stays the same while cloud formations flicker, form, and dissolve all around, except for the storm in the center, which swirls and grows and shrinks, but never dissipates, and never moves from that spot.

 

“Forty-eight more hours, please, Friday.” 

 

In the moment of silence while they all examine the very persistent storm, a rough voice comes from behind Steve. “Hydra base.” 

 

Everyone’s head jerks that direction, where Clint is surprised to see Bucky. He didn’t even see Bucky enter the room, and yet there he is, standing behind Steve’s shoulder wearing all black: jeans, combat boots, hoodie, and baseball cap, like it isn’t the middle of the fucking night. His arms are tightly folded and his hair is hanging in his eyes like he’s hiding. He _is_ hiding, Clint thinks. He’s _always_ hiding, even in the tower where he’s perfectly safe.

 

“He _can_ string two words together!” Tony crows. “Care to elaborate, Bionicle? Or do we get to play twenty questions until someone hits on your meaning?”

 

Bucky silently eyes Tony like he’s expecting a fistfight. Clint thinks Bucky pretty much always looks like he’s expecting a fistfight: not hoping for one exactly, just resigned to the inevitable. Nine months he’s been living here, and Clint hasn't heard more than one or two words at a time from him. He never laughs at Clint’s jokes, and Clint has worked HARD to try to get him to laugh. Nothing. And his shoulders always look like he’s tensing for a blow.

 

“Ok, twenty questions it is!” Tony claps his hands and rubs them together. “Do you mean—“

 

“There’s a Hydra base outside Vardja,” Bucky said, pronouncing the name like a native. “Underground.”

 

“Ah, a full sentence! Where exactly?”

 

Bucky jerks his head toward the screen. Tony just raises an eyebrow at him, obviously waiting for him to be more specific. When Bucky jerks his head again, Tony says, “Are you having some sort of seizure?”

 

“Right fucking there.” Bucky points with his flesh hand at the swirling clouds on the screen. His temple twitches from grinding his teeth. Clint understands the sentiment.

 

“Buck? Can you get us in?” Steve asks.

 

Bucky’s only response is a curt half-nod, as if the effort required to produce those few words has exhausted him.

 

“All right, everybody suit up. All hands on deck in ten minutes. Let’s go bring our boy home.”

 

* * *

 

 Clint ends up facing Bucky on the jet, who is sitting slumped in his seat with his arms folded tightly across his chest, gaze fixed somewhere over Clint’s shoulder. His mouth doesn’t move, but his face speaks pretty clearly. 

 

It says _Don’t talk to me._

 

Clint’s happy to comply. Now that the uncertainty is over and they have a plan of action, Clint’s insomnia evaporates and he is asleep within seconds anyway.

 

When he opens his eyes nearly eight hours later, still exhausted even though that was more sleep than he has gotten at one stretch in over two weeks, Bucky is still sitting in exactly that same position, except now Wanda’s head rests against his shoulder, eyes closed and mouth open. Clint tries not to react, but he feels his mouth tug up at the corner anyway, because _come on_. Bucky just scowls back at him, clearly unamused.

 

* * *

 

 

The one nice thing Clint can say about the weather surrounding the Hydra base is that it makes it really easy to sneak in. No guards are apparently willing to brave the hail-and-thunderstorm to hang around outside protecting the entrance, so they just stroll right in.

 

And one nice thing Clint can say about having two ex-Soviet Assassin types on his team is that they are really good at killing without drawing attention to themselves. Bucky dispatches the first hostile inside the entrance before Clint can even raise his bow. Just snaps the dude’s neck without even breaking his stride. Natasha takes care of the second one with a Widow’s bite. 

 

They find the surveillance control room easily enough. Steve mouths “Three, two—“ but before he can finish the countdown, Bucky and Natasha are already in the door, and a second later Natasha sticks her head out and whispers “Clear.” Ex-Soviet Assassin types are handy like that.

 

Two bodies lie bonelessly over the chairs facing a table, where remains of their lunch is still spread out. A bank of security monitors lines the walls behind them, which they obviously weren’t watching, or they would’ve sounded the alarm already. _Lucky for us, not so lucky for them,_ Clint thinks as he takes up a position by the door where he can keep an eye on both the hallway and the monitors. 

 

Retracting his faceplate, Tony sits down at a workstation and starts messing with the keyboard. In just a few seconds, different rooms in the compound enlarge on the monitors. The first two show views of a room with tables where several people sit calmly eating. The third holds a man and a woman in lab coats working over a rack of test tubes. The fourth contains two tables, one empty and another cluttered with unidentifiable equipment, but apparently no people.

 

Clint hears a low cry on the other side of the room, followed by a thump and a scrabbling sound. He turns to find that Bucky, who had been watching the monitor over Wanda’s head, is now on his backside, backed into the corner with his arm over his head. Shit. One of the downsides of ex-Soviet Assassin types, especially the ones who are capable of crushing windpipes one-handed, is when they lose their shit, they go all out.

 

“Bucky?” Steve says cautiously, reaching a hand out toward him. “Buck? What is it?”

 

Bucky curls in on himself more tightly, making a small sound like a wounded animal. Double shit.

 

“Steve, don’t touch him,” Natasha says. She is looking back and forth between the monitor and the scary assassin/terrified POW on the floor. “Bucky,” she says in a matter-of-fact voice, like it’s totally normal for him to be curled up on the floor practically shitting his pants, “do you recognize anyone?”

 

Bucky wordlessly points toward the third screen, where the woman is using some kind of dropper or whatever (Clint doesn’t know how to science) to transfer a red liquid from one test tube to another. The woman has a mousy face and grayish hair pulled up into a ponytail. She looks very ordinary, harmless, like someone’s grandma, until Clint realizes the red liquid in the tube is probably blood, maybe even Thor’s.

 

“Her?” Natasha asks, touching her finger to the screen.

 

Bucky nods jerkily. Steve, kneeling by his side, looks like someone is squeezing his head. He reaches out his hand like he really wants to touch Bucky, but stops before he makes contact.

 

“Hey, guys,” Tony says, leaning in toward one of the other monitors, the one that shows an apparently empty room. “Whaddaya think of this?” He points to a corner of the screen, where Clint can see a little sliver of something red, maybe fabric. Tony taps a button and zooms in on the corner—definitely fabric. “It moved a second ago. I’m thinking that’s Thor’s cape. Shall we go find out?” Tony spins the chair around. “What do you say, Cap?”

 

But Steve is too busy staring anxiously at Bucky at the moment to give orders. “Hey, Bucky, it’s all right, pal,” He says. Bucky has lowered his arm but is still scrunched into the corner with his gaze focused on the far wall.

 

“Right, all right,” Tony says, spinning around in the chair. “Ok, Barton, Vision, you go with Cap and Barnes to find Thor. Romanoff, Maximoff, Wilson, you go drop in on those so-called scientists. I’ll stay here and monitor for hostiles.”

 

“Right. Let’s go,” Natasha says. She squeezes Steve’s shoulder and heads out the door with one of those scary intense expressions on her face that Clint knows well. Wanda and Sam follow on her heels.

 

As they head down the hall, Clint hears Wanda say, “Just to be perfectly clear, we’re going to kill them, correct?”

 

“Oh yeah, they’re dead,” Natasha replies.

 

“Oh, don’t kill them both at once, girl. I want in on that action,” Sam says as they disappear around the corner.

 

Bucky pries himself out of the corner and shakes off Steve’s offer of a hand up. 

 

“Are you all right?”

 

“Fine,” is all Bucky says, “let’s go.” He edges past Steve out into the hallway.

 

“Bucky? Do you know where to go?”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says flatly. They all follow him down the hall and down two flights of stairs into subterranean levels lit by flickering bare bulbs. Bucky’s combat boots are completely silent on the stairs, as is his knife when he slits the throat of a guard who is unlucky enough to come upon them as they exit the staircase.

 

When they get to the room at the end of the hall, Bucky doesn’t even check to see if the rest of the team are ready, just kicks in the door and stalks in with his gun in front of him. Steve follows, then Vision and Sam. Clint, taking up the rear so he can monitor the hallway, sees the tables first. The one nearest the door is empty—no, not quite empty; it’s smeared with dried blood and what might be vomit. Chains dangle from the sides, with smallish metal cuffs attached to the ends. Those wouldn’t fit Thor—that table must have been used for someone else

 

The table in the back holds something glowing orange—maybe a ball?—that wasn’t visible on the security camera. Clint narrows his eyes at it, but then he’s distracted by a little whimpering sound coming from the other corner of the room, too high-pitched to be Thor, so maybe another prisoner is being held here?

 

He look toward the source of the noise, and sees, not Thor, but a little boy wrapped in Thor’s unmistakeable red cape—frightened blue eyes; matted, dirty-blond hair; filthy face streaked with blood and tears, one eye ringed with a dark bruise; one small fist clutching the cape with the corner stuffed into his mouth. The wrist has a metal cuff on it attached to the wall with a length of chain. Those little cuffs on the table—this kid is who they were meant to fit. Clint wants to vomit.

 

Steve exchanges a glance with Bucky, then they both just sort of stare at the boy, who makes a frightened sound in his throat. A dirty bare foot appears, little toes pushing against the floor as he scrabbles backward further into the corner.

 

“Um. . . Hey there, buddy,” Steve says. “Hey, it’s all right. Um. . . What’s your name?”

 

The boy’s wide-eyed gaze darts from one to the next, as if trying to decide who is the biggest threat. He’s terrified, Clint thinks, of course he is; somebody chained him to a fucking table and tortured him.

 

Steve glances at Bucky, who gives a minute shrug, then he crouches down and tries again. “What’s your name, pal?”

 

After a pause, the boy pulls the corner of the cape out of his mouth and says in a hoarse, scratchy little voice, “Four.”

 

_Four? What kind of name is Four?_ And then suddenly Clint remembers Cooper at age three, trying to say “thumb” and it coming out as “fum.”

 

“Thor?” Clint says. “Is your name Thor?” This. . . is _Thor_?

 

Steve blinks. “ _Thor?_ ” he says incredulously.

 

“Dat’s what I said. Who are you?”

 

“I’m—I’m Steve, this is Bucky, Vision and Clint.” Steve gestures to each member of the team in turn. “We’re gonna get you out of here.”

 

“Did my mother and father send you?”

 

What are they supposed to say to that? _Sorry, kid, your parents and everyone you ever knew are dead. Oh, and your whole planet’s been destroyed too. Sorry._

 

“Yes, they sent us,” Steve says, without making eye contact. Dead giveaway. _Goddammit, Steve, you're a terrible liar._

 

The boy narrows his eyes suspiciously. “What are the secret code words?”

 

Shit. They all just kind of look at each other, because how the hell are they supposed to know? 

 

“By the power of Odin,” Clint jokes, because he has this problem where he says the first thing that pops into his mind. _Stupid_.

 

Everyone freezes. As Steve shoots him The Look, the kid pipes, “Yes, dat’s right.”

 

Steve’s eyebrows fly up in almost comical surprise. He turns back to the kid and opens his mouth, but the boy is looking past him at Clint with these bright blue, trusting eyes. “Will you take me home?”

 


	2. Airpwane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Widdle Four meets the rest of the team. Clint and Bucky get baptized in bomit.

Clint swallows down his shock because _he was RIGHT??_ And maybe this is _actually THOR?? E_ veryone is looking at him, waiting for him to make the next move, so he chokes out,. “Uh, yeah, kiddo, we’ll uh—we’ll take you home.”

 

“Let’s get that cuff off you,” Steve says, reaching for the boy’s hand, but he pulls back in fear, looking desperately at Clint, and Clint’s heart melts, because even if the kid is lying and he _isn’t_ actually Thor, here’s a kid, a little boy about the same age as Clint’s youngest son, hurt and terrified, completely alone, and he’s had who-knows-what done to him. Clint edges around Bucky, who is glaring at the kid intently, like maybe he’s thinking of the easiest way to kill him. Clint’s pretty sure that’s what Bucky is thinking about most of the time, and Bucky never opens his fucking mouth to say different. Bucky doesn’t move, and Clint is careful not to touch him. He doesn’t want to trigger another one of—whatever that was back in the control room. 

 

“Hey, buddy, I’m right here,” Clint says softly, sitting down next to the kid. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, ok? You’re safe with us.”

 

“Hold onto him. I’m going to break the chain with the shield,” Steve says.

 

“Um. Ok. Thor, um. . .” Before he can tell the kid what to do, he’s scrambling into Clint’s lap with his knees pulled up and his head tucked under Clint’s chin. God, he’s fever-hot and trembling all over. Clint’s arms go around him automatically. He’s more solid than Nathaniel, firm where Nathaniel is still soft (and also he stinks like a hobo), but the muscle memory of holding and protecting is the same.

 

“All right, here,” Clint says, wrapping his hand around the kid’s smaller one to protect it, “hold still just like that. Steve will get you free.”

 

As Steve stands up and raises the shield, the kid tucks his face in against Clint’s shoulder with a whimpering sound. Clint keeps his hand still while Steve brings the shield down onto the chain with a crash, but the chain doesn’t break. Steve frowns at it and tries again, but still nothing.

 

Steve kneels down and inspects the chain, which isn’t even dented. “Vision, can you cut this chain?” he asks.

 

“I believe I can. Excuse me, Sergeant Barnes.” Clint thinks that's awfully polite of Vision, considering he could just go right _through_.

 

Bucky, who is still staring at the kid, swallows hard and silently takes a step to the side without breaking his eye contact. Clint is starting to get a little spooked by it. He never knows what Bucky is thinking when he goes watchful like that.

 

“Thank you. Captain, please protect the child with your shield.”

 

Steve crouches next to Clint with his shield held over both of them. Over the top of the shield, Clint sees the stone in Vision’s forehead begin to glow, then feels the heat as he focuses the laser. A second later the chain breaks and the kid’s wrist, though still wrapped in the cuff, is loose.

 

“There you go, see? You’re free.” Clint expects that the kid will get up, but instead his arm jerks in and his fingers curl into Clint’s collar, hanging onto Clint for dear life. Huh. 

 

While he is trying to figure out how to get up without dropping the kid, he hears Steve talking to Bucky on the other side of the room.

 

“We can have Wanda check if it’s really him,” Steve says in a voice that probably carries more than he was intending.

 

“We’re taking him anyway,” Bucky responds. Clint isn’t expecting that answer, given that just a few minutes ago Bucky was glaring at the kid like he was calculating how much of a threat he was. Hell, Clint wasn’t expecting any answer from Bucky at all, since his usual form of communication is a grunt with the occasional nod or point thrown in to shake things up.

 

“Yes, we’ll take him anyway, of course. I just want to know if we need to keep looking.”

 

“Cap, if you’re almost done with whatever the hell it is you’re doing, you might want to get moving. you’ve got incoming,” Tony says over the comm. “Looks like three hostiles headed your way. No weapons visible.”

 

“Ok, Tony. We’ve got him. . . we think. Let’s move, people. Clint, you need any help?”

 

Clint has finally gotten to his feet with the kid, who is a damn sight heavier than he looks, hanging off him like a little monkey. “Nope, I’ve got him, thanks for asking.”

 

“Captain,” Vision says from across the room, where he is intently examining the lumpy orange stone on the table, “my analysis of this stone indicates that it contains at least three unknown elements. The first is—“

 

“How about just bring it along,” Steve interrupts hurriedly. “Can you carry it?”

 

“I can do that, Captain. It will not harm me. However, I do not recommend that any of you touch it.” Vision picks up the stone, and Steve peeks out into the hallway, shield up, then motions them all to follow. 

 

Clint wraps one arm under the kid’s backside and the other around his back, which leaves him no hands free to shoot. As he’s considering how he’s going to defend himself and his cargo, he feels a hand under his elbow. Clint jerks his head around in surprise, to find Bucky right next to him, staring straight ahead with his gun clenched tightly in his right hand. The muscle in his jaw is jumping from grinding his teeth.

 

“Hostiles just ahead of you,” Tony warns them. Before they even have time to react, a woman and two men come around the corner. One of the men pulls a gun from his waistband as soon as he sees them. Clint wraps his arms tightly around the kid with a hand on the back of his head, not that a hand is going to do much to protect his fragile little body from a _bullet._

 

Clint sees the muzzle pointed directly at them, and then the sound of the gun firing echoes off the walls of the hallway. Clint’s sure the kid is going to end up dead, but suddenly Bucky’s silver arm appears in front of them, blocking the bullet which pings off the metal and bounces harmlessly away. Well, apparently _some_ hands can block bullets. 

 

Bucky raises the gun in his other hand and fires right next to Clint’s ear, hitting the man directly through the eye socket. Blood and brain matter splatter all over the wall. Thor shrieks in terror and presses his face in hard against Clint’s shoulder, with tiny fingers gripping Clint’s collar so tightly he can barely breathe. 

 

“It’s ok,” Clint whispers in his ear, not sure if the kid can even hear him after the crack of the bullet. The grip doesn’t loosen.

 

Two more shots follow in quick succession, and all three of the hostiles dropped like flies. Bucky barely even slows down, just puts his hand on Clint’s back and steers him forward without a word, stepping over the bodies on the way down the hallway. Clint strokes the kid’s tangled hair to try to calm him, but he is still trembling violently with his face buried in Clint’s shoulder. 

 

“Ok, everyone out,” Steve orders over the comm. “We’ll meet you at the jet as quickly as possible.”

 

“Got it,” Natasha responds. “On our way.”

 

The second they step outside they are hit with a blast of wind that drives pouring rain directly into their faces and nearly knocks them off their feet. The slate-gray sky lights up with a flash of lightning, and almost immediately thunder booms nearby. Thor makes a whining noise while he squirms deeper into Clint’s arms, trying to burrow his way into Clint’s jacket.

 

“Hey, you’re safe, I’ve got you,” Clint shouts into his ear over the storm, “It’s all right, calm down, buddy.”

 

Thor’s body goes still, but his muscles remain taut and quivering like a drawn bowstring, and he doesn’t remove his face from Clint’s shoulder. Maybe it’s Clint’s imagination that the wind has died down a little.

 

By the time they make it back to the jet, they are all soaked to the skin. As soon as the door is opened by Natasha from the inside, they all pile in. Bucky stops just inside the door and puts his hand roughly under Clint’s elbow to help him in. 

 

Clint, surprised, mutters “Thanks,” which gets no response, of course. He wonders if there are words somewhere inside of Bucky, stuck like coins in a vending machine, and someday he’ll get whacked upside the head hard enough that they’ll all just fall out and surprise the hell outta everyone.

 

Natasha, Wanda, and Sam are all on their feet, gaping wide-eyed at the little bundle in Clint’s arms, until Tony, from the pilot’s seat, says, “The captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign. If you’ll please take your seats, we’ll be taking off momentarily.”

 

He immediately engages the engines, and they all scramble to get to their seats before the inertia knocks them off their feet. Clint looks around for where to put Thor, but Bucky catches his elbow and pulls him down into a seat, steadying him when he overbalances and almost falls into Bucky’s lap. All of the seats are full, so Thor will apparently be sitting on Clint’s lap, not that he could have pried him off anyway. He hasn’t lifted his head from Clint’s shoulder, and his knuckles are still white from his grip on Clint’s collar.

 

Clint tries to fumble with the seatbelt as they lift off, but he can't get it buckled around both of them. Just as he is about to give up, Bucky takes the buckle out of his hand and fastens it for him. When Clint looks up, he realizes everyone is silently staring at them, everyone except Tony and Vision who are having some sort of discussion in the cockpit that Clint has no idea about, and probably wouldn’t understand even if he could hear it.

 

“Oh, um. Everybody, this is Thor.”

 

“Hi, Thor,” they all say in unison, like they’re at a fucking AA meeting.

 

Clint feels Thor’s head lift just a little, although his fingers don’t unclench from Clint’s shirt. “Thor, this is Natasha, Sam, Wanda, and Tony,” Clint says, pointing to each team member in turn, starting with Natasha on his right. Tony waves from the pilot’s seat when Clint says his name, but doesn’t turn around from his pow-wow with Vision. "Steve, Vision, and Bucky you've already met. And I'm Clint."

 

“Hewwo,” Thor says in a tiny, high-pitched voice, then his face dives right back in against Clint’s neck.

 

Natasha mouths, “What happened?”, to which Clint just shrugs wearily.

 

“Did you. . . “ He starts in an undertone, then pauses, looks down at Thor’s head, and revises what he was about to say. “. . . accomplish your mission?”

 

“Oh yeah, it’s taken care of,” Natasha shows her teeth in a feral smile.

 

Clint feels his lip curl in response. “Good.” It’s satisfying to know that the brains of the people who did this to the kid are currently painting the walls of the base.

 

Sam leans down and takes a water bottle from the compartment under his seat. “Thor, are you thirsty?” he asks, opening the bottle and holding it out.

 

After a moment, Thor’s head nods against Clint’s shoulder but he doesn’t move to try to take the bottle, so Clint takes it. “Here you go, buddy.”

 

Thor finally grabs the bottle in both hands—damn, his stubby fingers aren’t even long enough to wrap all the way around—and takes a drink, a small sip at first, then upends the bottle and starts gulping it down greedily, splashing water on his face, Clint’s arm, and the cape in his eagerness, not that it matters because they are both soaked already. 

 

“Hey, slow down there a little.” Clint puts his hand over Thor’s to steady the bottle and helps him drink more slowly so he doesn’t choke. The water is mostly gone before he finally pushes the bottle away and gazes around the cabin, eyes darting from person to person—observant, is the way Clint would describe it, the same look that Bucky gets sometimes, when Tony and Sam are doing their usual verbal jousting and he doesn’t seem to know for sure whether they mean it or not.

 

“Hey, Thor, can I see your wrist?” Natasha says, reaching into a pocket on her side. 

 

“No,” Thor says immediately, eyes wide with alarm. His hands disappear back under the cape and he huddles in closer to Clint.

 

She pulls a slim case out of her pocket. “I’m going to take that cuff off.”

 

“Wif a wight on your head?” Thor asks in a small voice.

 

Natasha cocks an eyebrow at Clint, who clarifies, “Vision cut the chain.”

 

“Oh. No, sweetie, with these.” She opens the case and pulls out her lockpicks. Thor contemplates them silently, with his hands both still hidden under the cape.

 

“Go ahead, buddy, she won’t hurt you,” Clint says. Thor looks up at him with—Oh, god—those trusting eyes, so wide and bright blue. When Clint nods at him encouragingly, a small hand appears from under the cape, and Clint takes it and holds it still so Natasha can get to the cuff. After a moment, Thor leans his damp head against Clint’s neck while he solemnly watches her work. It’s sweet, Clint thinks, but damn the kid stinks.

 

“Wanda,” says Steve, while Clint is occupied with helping Nat get the cuff off, “can you check. . .”

 

“What would you like me to do, Captain? I do not believe he is capable of consenting.”

 

“Just check to make sure it’s really him—I’m not asking you to read his mind,” Steve says hastily.

 

There is a pause. Clint looks up to see Wanda contemplating the kid with her mouth twisted in thought. “I will just take a quick look, only long enough to establish identity. And I will not force him if he resists.”

 

“That’s good enough. Thanks, Wanda.”

 

The cuff finally pops open and Natasha eases his wrist, which is ringed with dark purple bruises, free.

 

“Fank you, Wady Natasha,” the boy says gravely. Clint can’t help but smile, because that is so thoroughly _Thor_ , that if there had been any doubt in Clint’s mind of the kid’s identity, it has been erased. Clint looks up in time to see Natasha making a ridiculously gooey heart-melty face. When she catches Clint’s eye, she shrugs.

 

“What? He’s cute,” she says, grinning down at the top of the kid’s head.

 

“Ok, I can’t dispute that,” Clint says. “Wanda? Your turn.”

 

Wanda changes seats with Natasha. “I promise you this will not hurt,” she says in a voice like a doctor about to give a shot. 

 

Thor glances at Clint for reassurance, so Clint nods (even though he’s not sure that’s actually true) and Wanda flicks her fingers to start the hex, then the air is glowing red and crackling. Clint’s heart is thumping, because he remembers watching her do this to his teammates before. He knows she isn’t trying to hurt him this time, but he can’t help his visceral reaction. 

 

Thor sits quietly for a second, eyes wide, then suddenly his knees jerk in convulsively and his hands clamp over his ears. “No, no no!” he cries. “Pwease! Wet me go! Mama! MAMA!” A bright flash of lightning illuminates the sky.

 

“Wanda, STOP!” Clint shouts over the crack of thunder and sudden downpour of rain that follows. 

 

Wanda ends the hex abruptly and sits back, breathing hard. “I’m sorry, Thor. I’m so sorry.” She gets up, wavering on her feet in the suddenly rocky cabin, and reclaims her original seat from Natasha. “It’s him, Captain. Are you satisfied?” she says to Steve in a hard voice.

 

Steve blinks at her. “Yes. I—I apologize, Thor. I didn’t realize. . .”

 

At the sound of his voice, Thor curls in even further, with his wet face pressed in against Clint’s collarbone. Clint shakes his head at Steve, who goes silent, brows knitted together in concern. “Thor, buddy, it’s all right,” Clint soothes. “It’s all right. You’re safe now.”

 

“My ‘tomach feels sick,” Thor says in a barely audible voice. Before Clint can react, Thor doubles over and starts gagging and retching. Shit! Where’s that stupid airsick bag?

 

As he is frantically looking around trying to remember where they keep the bags (Bruce would know; he’s the usual puker, but he’s back at the tower because an underground bunker is not a good place for a Hulk-out blah blah blah, according to Steve), one suddenly appears in front of him, held in Bucky’s metal hand. Clint grabs it and holds it in front of Thor’s mouth just in time for him to throw up all over, almost entirely missing the bag and bathing himself, Clint, and Bucky in a tidal wave of puke. Luckily it’s mostly water, and they are all already wet anyway. Clint is willing to just wait until they get back to the tower to clean it up.

 

“I’m sorry, Cwint,” Thor whispers once he is done retching, “I didn’t mean to bomit on you.”

 

“That’s ok, pal. It’s ok, just rest. You’re safe,” he says, pulling him in and rubbing his hand up and down Thor’s back. He can feel the vertebrae through the thick fabric of the cape and wonders if his captors fed him. Obviously not enough. 

 

Thor stuffs the corner of the cape in his mouth and chews on it. After a moment, his breathing evens out and his head drops heavily against Clint’s neck. God, he’s so warm. Maybe he’s sick? Clint brushes the sweaty hair back and lays the back of his hand against Thor’s forehead.

 

“Nat, does he feel warm to you?” Clint whispers. Nat leans in and puts her hand on the back of his neck, a gentle touch that turns into a caress of the curls at the nape of his neck. Thor has been growing his hair back out, a slow and painful process. It had just gotten to the point where it hung in his eyes all the time, but not quite long enough to go into a ponytail. Usually he kept it neatly combed back (and even once asked Clint to braid it, reasoning that since he had a daughter, he would know how to braid—Clint didn’t), but just now it’s a tangled, matted mess.

 

“No, he just naturally runs warm. If anything, he feels cooler than usual. Might be shock.” 

 

“Or the fact that he’s soaking wet.”

 

“The cape dries quickly. It’ll keep him warm.” Moving slowly and carefully, Natasha pulls up the cape and wraps it more securely around Thor’s shoulders. The kid shifts in his sleep, so Clint goes back to rubbing his back until he settles again. After three kids of his own, Clint knows this: the sweet weight of a sleeping child in his arms, how to hold him so he feels secure, when to move and when to be still so he stays asleep. It’s soothing to Clint too, like curling up with a hot water bottle, and he feels his eyelids growing heavy.

 

While Clint is leaning back against the seat with his eyes closed, he feels something rubbing against his arm. He cracks his eye open just enough to see Bucky with a towel, wiping up the puke. Well, if that doesn’t beat all.

 

After a minute, the rubbing stops, then Clint feels a blanket being spread out across him and the kid. When Bucky leans over to tuck in the blanket under Clint’s shoulder, Clint catches a glimpse of his face—jaw set, mouth tight, brows lowered—and quickly closes his eyes again and pretends to be asleep. Holy shit, No heart-melty face for that guy. Bucky scowls even when he’s doing something nice, and Clint really doesn’t know what to make of him.

 


	3. Heawer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently guessing the password means Clint has custody of mini-Thor now. Maybe he should have thought this through.

Steve thinks Dr. Cho should examine the kid, but the kid disagrees.

 

“You need to let the doctor look at you.”

 

“No.”

 

“It won't hurt; she’ll just check if you’re ok.”

 

“No.”

 

“Well, maybe—“

 

Clint rolls his eyes and steps in, because it’s obvious Steve knows nothing about reasoning with little kids. Namely, that it’s impossible.

 

“Yep, we’re doing it, buddy. You can sit on my lap while she checks you over,” Clint says firmly. He’s already carrying Thor, and he won’t let Clint put him down, so what is he going to do? 

 

“Steve, you might want to let Cho know we’re coming,” he throws back over his shoulder. As he heads toward the infirmary with a tense-but-unresisting Thor held securely in his arms, he notices an increase in the rain lashing down on the windows, followed by a loud crack of thunder. 

 

Oh. 

 

That’s what he can do. This filthy, stinky, beat-up little kid is a tiny godlet of thunder. 

 

Well, let it rain. They are safe inside the tower now, so Clint keeps walking to the infirmary, where Dr. Cho meets them at the door. Steve must have given her the scoop, because she doesn’t look surprised to see Thor in miniature.

 

“Come on in, guys. Thor, I’m Dr. Cho,” she says with a smile.

 

Thor watches her with that observant gaze, then pulls the corner of the cape out of his mouth and says, “Pweased to meet you. Are you a heawer?”

 

“Yes, I am a healer. My title is Doctor. I’m just going to have a quick look and make sure you’re ok.”

 

Thor looks at Clint, and his wary eyes turn hopeful. “And den will you take me home?”

 

Shit. _Shit shit shit_.

 

“I can’t do that right now, pal. We have to figure some things out first.”

 

Thor’s face falls. Another loud crack of thunder booms outside. _Shit_.

 

“I’ll do my best, ok? You’re safe with me here and I’ll see what I can do.”

 

The trust in Thor’s eyes wavers. He jams the corner of the cape back into his mouth and chews. As Cho leads them into the exam room, his anxious eyes dart around and he flinches when she pulls the curtain.

 

“Thor, this won’t hurt at all. I’m just going to look. You can sit on Clint’s lap the whole time. Got it?”

 

Thor nods solemnly. His fingers are still clenched tightly into Clint’s collar as his round jaw works on the corner of the cape.

 

“Clint, go ahead and sit on the exam table with him, all right?”

 

Clint settles them onto the exam table with Thor sitting sideways on his lap. First Cho shines her light into Thor’s ears, eyes, and nose, then her fingers lightly probe the bruise around his eye.

 

“That looks all right, just a bruise. Ok, honey, open your mouth.”

 

“Why?”

 

“So I can see if your mouth and throat look healthy.”

 

Thor pulls the corner of the cape out of his mouth and opens a little bit. Cho slides her fingers under his chin and repositions his head so she can shine the light in further. “Say ‘ahhh’.”

 

Thor looks confused, but he dutifully says “ahhh” while she shines her light in his mouth. When she’s done, he asks, “Do my mouf and froat wook healfy?”

 

“Yep, they look fine. Good job, honey.”

 

“I did a good job, Cwint,” he says in an earnest voice, looking up at Clint with a ghost of a grin on his filthy face.

 

Clint can’t help but grin back at him. “Yes you did. You’re doing great.”

 

“Ok, Thor, now I’m going to check your breathing and your tummy. We just need to pull the blanket down so I can have a look, ok?”

 

The grin vanishes. Thor’s little fingers grip the edges of the blanket tightly around himself, and he presses his body into Clint’s chest like he’s trying to disappear.

 

“It’s all right, pal. She’s just going to have a look. She won’t hurt you.”

 

Thor shakes his head against Clint’s shoulder. “No.”

 

“She has to look. That’s her job as healer.”

 

Thor sniffles into Clint’s armpit. “My mother said I have to obey the heawers because dey are fying to help me feel better.”

 

“Uh.” Clint’s throat has a hard lump in it, just above the adam’s apple. He tries to swallow it down but it doesn’t move. “Yeah, your mom is pretty smart, kiddo. You ready?”

 

“Yes. My mother will wike dat.” Thor sits up and lets Dr. Cho gently unwrap the cape from around his shoulders and torso, leaving it to pool around his waist. Clint gets his first glimpse of the state of Thor’s body, and the sight causes a white-hot spike of fury to rise in his chest: multiple scratches, some fresh and some scabbed over; multi-colored finger-mark bruises like grapes dotting both arms and shoulders; what looks like a size 10 bootprint on his back; a partially healed _bite-mark_ just above his right shoulder blade. _Fuck_. Clint knows that the people who did this are dead, but he wishes he could resurrect them so he can torture them to death with his own hands.

 

Even though Clint is trying very hard to curb his reaction, the kid must read Clint’s anger in his muscles because he jams his fingers into his mouth and turns fearful eyes up to Clint. “I couldn't get away,” he whispers around his fingers. “Will my father be angry wif me?”

 

Clint wrestles his emotions back under control, because the last thing he wants to do is scare the kid more. “Oh, no, kiddo, your father won’t be angry. You were very brave.”

 

“I fied to be brave,” Thor says in a sad, defeated voice, “but I was ‘cared.”

 

“Being brave doesn’t mean you're not scared, Thor,” Cho says, “It means you are scared but you do it anyway. So you were very brave just to survive. We are proud of you.”

 

Thor doesn’t have anything to say about that, but he does relax a little into Clint’s embrace. His left hand stays in his mouth while his right twists in the cape around his waist.

 

“This is a stethoscope,” Cho says, putting the earpieces in her ears.

 

“A ‘tefa’cope?”

 

“Yes. It’s for listening to your heart and tummy. I’m going to put this part against your skin. Ready?”

 

Thor sits up a little to give her access to his stomach. “Yes, I’m ready,” he says, although his eyes are still wide with fear. He’s trying to be brave, Clint realizes, so his mother and father will be proud of him. And pretty soon Clint is going to have to rip his heart to pieces by telling him his parents and everyone else he knows are all dead. God, this is fucked up.

 

Cho places the bell end of the stethoscope against his bare chest and listens, then moves it down to his stomach, then his back. “Take a deep breath,” she says, moving the stethoscope to different quadrants of his lungs. Clint is very familiar with this procedure, having gone through it many times with Lila sitting on his lap while the doctor checked her asthma symptoms.

 

“Did you hear my heart?” Thor asks, when she pulls the stethoscope away. “Is it healfy?”

 

“Yes, it sounds healthy. Do you want to listen?”

 

Thor glances at Clint as if asking for permission. “You don’t need to ask me. It’s up to you,” Clint says. “Do you want to?”

 

“Yes pwease.”

 

Cho’s lips twitch upward like she’s trying not to smile as she tucks the earpieces into his ears and holds the bell against his chest. He listens with a very serious expression on his little round face, then his eyes widen in wonder.

 

“Dat’s my heart?”

 

“Sure is. It sounds fine.”

 

“Cwint, can I wisten to your heart?” 

 

“Sure, kid.” Clint unbuttons his jacket and lets Thor clumsily position the bell end of the stethoscope against his chest. 

 

Thor listens intently for a minute, then pronounces, “Your heart is healfy too, Cwint.”

 

“Good to hear,” says Dr. Cho, “especially since I can never get him in here for his annual checkup. Thor, now I’m just going to check your arms and legs.” She puts the stethoscope away, then stretches out Thor’s arms and feels down their length, pausing at his wrists to gently probe the bruised area.

 

“Dat’s where dey put the shackos,” Thor says as he watches her hands. His voice is so quiet that it takes Clint a minute to figure out what he’s talking about. 

 

Cho meets Clint’s eye over Thor’s head, obviously confused, so he mouths, “shackles.” She sucks in a quick breath and her eyes immediately fill with tears.

 

“I’m so sorry they hurt you, honey,” she says in a soft voice. Thor doesn’t respond, just sniffles and picks up the already damp corner of the cape, sticks it into his mouth and starts to chew on it. Clint starts imaging his attackers’ blood spattering the walls of the Hydra base to make himself feel better. However they died, it was too fast and easy. They should have suffered for what they did to this kid.

 

Cho folds the cape back and moves on to his bare legs, starting at his thighs and working her way down to his ankles. She pauses again at the bruises ringing his ankles, then moves on to his feet without comment. 

 

“Ok, nothing broken. I think you’re good to go,” Cho says with a smile when she’s done. “Just one more thing. I need to take some blood.”

 

Thor’s eyes widen. “Where do you take it from?”

 

“Your arm, with a needle. It will only—“

 

She is interrupted by a shriek from Thor, who starts trying to climb Clint. “No!!” he screams, fingers clawing at the skin on Clint’s neck, knobby knees digging into Clint’s groin, “NONONO!!”

 

Even there are no exterior windows on the room they are in, Clint can clearly hear the boom of thunder outside, and then the lights flicker ominously. Cho makes a surprised little “Oh!” and immediately sets down the needle she was preparing. “Ok, never mind, never mind. We don’t have to do that.”

 

“No needoh?” Thor says hopefully, peeking out from Clint’s neck. 

 

“Nope, no needle. We can do without the blood.” 

 

Thor climbs back down, still looking at the needle warily, and Cho wraps the cape back up around his shoulders. To Clint she says, “He seems all right. I don’t know what happened, but he seems perfectly healthy apart from a few bumps and bruises. I can do more analysis later.”

 

Clint nods, even though he isn’t sure why she’s telling him that. It’s not like Clint’s in _charge_ of Thor or anything. He was just the one who happened to guess the secret code words. And the only one Thor would let touch him. And the one Thor clung to and wouldn’t let go. _Shit_. Maybe Clint _is_ in charge of this kid.

 

“Ok, great. Thor, would you like a lollipop?” Cho says sweetly.

 

“What’s dat?”

 

“It’s candy. Sweet.”

 

“Can I have it even dough I was bad?”

 

“You weren’t bad, honey. It’s ok to be scared. Would you like one?”

 

Thor shoots an anxious glance at Clint. Again that silent asking for permission. “It’s up to you. Do you want one?”

 

“Yes, pwease.”

 

Cho hands him a lollipop with a yellow and white wrapper, and he just looks at it with a confused frown on his little face, like he doesn’t know how to eat it. Well, he probably doesn’t, right? They don’t exactly have mass produced, wrapped candy on Asgard. _Didn’t_. Asgard _didn’t_ exactly have that, because Asgard is fucking _gone_.

 

“Here,” Clint says, pulling the wrapper off the lollipop. “Put it in your mouth.”

 

Thor eyes the lollipop warily. “I don’t fink I wike it,” he says with his nose wrinkled up.

 

“You’ll like it. It tastes sweet.” Clint knows he’s right about that—Thor has always loved anything sweet. His cups of coffee end up with an inch-thick layer of sugar sludge at the bottom, and he scarfs down donuts and cookies like they’re going extinct. Once Clint left a whole chocolate cake in the fridge CLEARLY LABELED with his name and the words DON’T TOUCH!, and came back an hour later to find only crumbs. When confronted, Thor claimed he didn’t read English, which was a dirty lie.

 

Clint holds the lollipop close to his mouth, and Thor’s little tongue darts out and licks it, tentatively at first, then eagerly. After the second lick, he pulls the lollipop out of Clint’s hand and stuffs it in his mouth, with his fist wrapped tightly around the stick like he is afraid someone will take it from him. Now that definitely seems more like Thor-the-Hoover.

 

“Do you know where they want me to take him?” Clint says to Cho, while Thor chomps on the lollipop trying to bite it.

 

“No, Steve didn’t tell me anything. You guys didn’t have a plan?”

 

“We didn’t exactly have time to come up with anything.”

 

“Well, I recommend he get a bath and a good meal while you decide then.” She pulls back the curtain and holds out her hand to help him down off the exam table, clearly dismissing them. A bath and a meal? Ok, so who is going to do that? Clint can’t exactly send this little kid back to Thor’s quarters on his own to take care of himself, can he?

 

As Clint hops down from the table, Thor snuggles in with his cheek against Clint’s shoulder, the lollipop still clutched in one tiny fist. On the way to the door, he pulls the lolllipop out of his mouth long enough to say, “Fank you for the wondipop, Heawer Cho,” in that ridiculous piping voice. 

 

Aaaand there’s the gooey heart-melty face from Cho. _Goddammit, kiddo, you’ve got all the ladies charmed already_ , Clint thinks. _Now what the hell am I going to do with you?_


	4. Baf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Give me privacy! Don't weave!

 

Clint stands outside of the infirmary, looking up and down the hall hoping someone will show up to take care of Thor, but the only people who pass are a couple of nervous-looking interns, and Clint can’t exactly hand the kid to one of them, now can he?

 

He shifts the kid to his right hip and pulls out his phone to text Steve.

 

**we are done w dr. where do i take him**

 

Then he just stands there and stares at his phone waiting for a response, while Thor chomps noisily on the lollipop. Finally the phone dings, which makes Thor jump and grip Clint’s sleeve in surprise.

 

“What was DAT?”

 

“Just my phone, buddy. Hang on,” Clint says. He flips the switch to turn off the sound while he reads the text.

 

_Dr. Cho doesn’t want to keep him for observation?_

 

Clint texts back, one handed: **says he's healthy. needs bath and meal. where do i take him??**

 

_You have an extra bedroom, right? He can stay with you for now._

 

~~**Are you fucking kidding me?** ~~ **ok until we figure something else out.**

 

Clint jams the phone back into his pocket and then musters up a smile for the kid, who has finished the lollipop and is now chewing on the stick like he’s trying to eat that too. 

 

“How about that bath, huh?” he says cheerfully, “then we’ll see about something for you to eat.”

 

“Den can you take me home?”

 

Clint closes his eyes to search for a lie that the kid will believe. “I wish I could—“ _really, you have no idea how much I wish I could just take you home and put you in your mother’s arms_ “—but we don’t have a way to get there right now. So we’re going to my quarters for now. We’ll figure out a more. . . permanent solution later.”

 

Thor doesn’t say anything, just keeps chewing on that stick, which is turning into a soggy mess. His fingers twist in the sleeve of Clint’s jacket while his wide eyes stare straight ahead.

 

“. . . Um. . . Ok, yeah. My quarters.” Clint heads to the elevator and Thor just rides along silently, clutching Clint’s sleeve tightly. Thor startles when the elevator starts moving, then again when it dings for the 21st floor. At first Clint can’t figure out why he would be afraid of it, but then he realizes, of course, the kid’s never been in an elevator before, has he? 

 

_“It’s ok, Thor, it’s supposed to feel like it’s moving. It’s taking us to a different floor of the building.”_

 

_“It’s ok, Thor, it’s supposed to make that noise. That means it’s our floor.”_

 

_“It’s ok, Thor, the doors are supposed to open on their own. It’s not magic, just technology.”_

 

Their first stop in his quarters is the kids’ bedroom, with its three little beds like the Three Bears’ house. He expects questions because the kids’ bedroom is filled with all sorts of crap they have left behind over the past year, but Thor silently clings to Clint’s shoulder while Clint rummages through the dresser drawers looking for clothes that will fit him.

 

Nathaniel’s Ironman t-shirt? Nope, too small.

 

Lila’s Black widow shirt? Nope, that’s actually a dress.

 

Cooper’s Smashing Pumpkins shirt (now, sadly outgrown)? It will have to do, even though it will hang down to Thor’s knees.

 

Nathaniel’s underwear and pants will be much too small for the kid, so it will have to be Cooper’s underwear and a pair of Lila’s jeans, that will be too big (and have a flower on the back pocket), but at least they have belt loops, so they can be held up with Cooper’s old Star Wars belt.

 

Clint goes into the bathroom with the clothes in one arm and Thor in the other. When he tries to sits Thor on the counter in the bathroom so he can start the water, the kid is still white-knuckling his jacket lapel and will not let go.

 

“I’m not leaving, I promise. I’m just starting the water,” Clint says, trying to peel the boy’s fingers from his jacket. Thor doesn’t say anything. He is looking at the tub but he doesn’t really seem to be seeing it.

 

“It’s ok, really. Here.” Clint gives up on unclenching Thor’s fingers and instead slips his jacket off and puts it in Thor’s lap. “You hold my jacket. That’s proof I’m not leaving, ok?”

 

Still no response from the kid, but he does let Clint go long enough for him to get the water started. When Clint comes back to the sink, the kid hasn’t moved. His eyes are huge and brimming with unshed tears. The cape has slipped down a little, exposing one filthy, too-skinny, scratched-up, vulnerable shoulder. When Clint reaches out to pull it back up, Thor flinches away with a little whimpering sound.

 

Clint slowly holds up his hand to show that it’s empty. “Thor, you’re safe here,” he says in a soft voice. The boy’s eyes flick up to meet Clint’s. His lower lip wobbles and his eyes are hollow. Blank.

 

_Traumatized_.

 

Still moving slowly, Clint gently pushes back the kid’s matted hair and lays a hand against his bruised cheek. “You’re safe here. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

 

“I want my mother,” Thor says in that small, pain-filled voice. He blinks, and the tears overflow down his face. “I want to go _home_.”

 

Clint lightly thumbs away the tears. His own eyes are burning and his goddamn heart is being ripped out of his chest, because he can’t even tell the kid the truth. Fuck this shit.

 

“I’m sorry, Thor. I really am. I—I can’t do that right now,” he chokes out, through the lump in his throat. “I wish I could, but I can’t. . .” God, what else is he supposed to say? He can’t fix this, can’t bring back Thor’s mother and father, can’t glue Asgard back together, can’t give Thor back everything he lost. The only thing he can do is try to distract the kid from the mountain of pain he’s being crushed by.

 

”. . . but I can give you a bath, so that’s—that’s what I’m going to do. The water’s ready, see?” Clint babbles, gesturing toward the full tub. “You can get clean, and you’ll feel a lot better. Then we’ll get you something to eat. Ok?”

 

The kid gives the full bathtub the side-eye, but doesn’t say anything. Tears continue to track silently down his filthy face.

 

Clint blows out a noisy breath. “Ok,” he says, more to himself than the kid. “Ok, I’m going to turn the water off now.” He suits action to word, stretching out to keep one hand on the kid’s knee while he turns off the water. “Then we’ll take that cape off and you can get in the bath.”

 

“No,” Thor squeaks, clutching the cape tightly around himself. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to get naked.”

 

“Don’t you want to take a bath and get clean?”

 

Thor nods.

 

“Well, then, you have to take the cape off.”

 

“I don’t want anyone to see me.” 

 

“Do you want me to leave the room?”

 

“No! Don’t weave!”

 

“Well. . .” Clint scratches his head, trying to figure out how he can both give the kid privacy and not leave the room at the same time. “How about if I sit right outside the door? I’ll keep my feet where you can see them. That way you’ll know I didn’t leave. Is that ok?”

 

Thor sticks the corner of the cape into his mouth and looks back and forth between the tub and the door several times before he nods warily.

 

“Ok, great. Perfect.” Clint lifts Thor down from the counter and sets him on his feet. It’s the first time he’s seen the kid standing on his own, and good grief, he doesn’t even come up to Clint’s waist, only a few inches taller than Nathaniel, who, at five, is small for his age. Clint lays his hand on Thor’s head, patting down his tangled hair to gauge his height, and wonders how old he is, then tells himself he’s being ridiculous because Asgardians (Aesir, whatever they call themselves, who cares because Thor’s pretty much the only one left anyway) live for thousands of years so how would they measure age?

 

Clint smoothes his hand over Thor’s hair, which is so matted Clint doesn’t know if one bath will fix it. “Ok, shampoo and conditioner are right there. Use this one on your hair first,” he says, pointing to the green bottle, “then rinse it out and put some of this on.” He points to Lila’s conditioner in the red bottle. “You can use this soap on your body, ok? And here’s a towel for when you’re done.”

 

Thor nods vacantly. Clint can’t tell if he’s really got it, or if he’s just agreeing out of habit, but there’s not much he can do about it if the kid won’t let him stay in the room.

 

“I’ll be right out here. Just holler if you need anything.”

 

“What does howwer mean?”

 

“Oh! Call me. I’ll be able to hear you. All right?”

 

“Don’t weave.”

 

“I won’t, I promise. I’ll be right there.”

 

Clint slowly backs out of the room, watching the kid’s face for signs that he is going to fall apart, but Thor just watches him go expressionlessly with the corner of the cape jammed into his mouth.

 

As soon as he gets outside, Clint settles himself on the floor and stretches his legs out so his feet will be visible in the open doorframe. He leans forward and listens for a moment, until he hears a rustling sound, then the quiet splash of Thor getting into the tub. Satisfied, he whips his phone out of his pocket and starts rapidly typing a text to Steve.

 

**We gotta figure out what’s gonna happen with this kid cuz he keeps asking me to take him home and it’s KILLING ME.**

 

He stares at his phone until Steve texts back.

 

_Tony thinks it has something to do with that orange stone Vision found. He and Bruce and Vision are working on it, Just hang tight._

 

Clint scowls furiously at the phone because no, he will not “just hang tight.”

 

**What are we going to tell him??**

 

_Just stall for a while, ok?_

 

**No, not ok! He’s scared to death and he thinks he's being kidnapped all over again. He’s not going to trust me if I keep telling him I’ll take him home but don’t do it.**

 

The phone starts buzzing with an incoming call from Steve, which was not what Clint intended. He declines the call and texts instead:

 

**I can't talk rn cuz he can hear me. Text me.**

 

_I don’t know what you want me to say, Clint. It’s not like we can actually take him to Asgard._

 

**I know that. I just am already tired of lying to him and I’m sure it’s only going to get worse.**

 

_Please, Clint, just hang tight. Tony and co should have this figured out soon._

 

_Please._

 

While Clint is trying to think of what else to say to Steve to get him to change his mind, he hears a gasp from the kid, followed by a tiny whimpering sound.

 

“Are you ok,” he calls in to Thor.

 

There is another little gasp before Thor answers, “. . . Yes, I’m all right. I don’t need any help.”

 

That’s not the sound of a kid who is all right, but Clint isn’t going to go in there and violate his privacy, so he just says, “Let me know if you need anything.”

 

“Yes, Cwint. I don’t need anyfing.”

 

Clint is still thinking about what to say to Steve when his phone buzzes with an incoming text from Natasha.

 

_How’s the kid?  
_

 

**Clean bill of health from Cho, although she couldn’t tell me why he’s a shadow of his former self. He’s taking a bath then I’m going to get him something to eat.**

 

_Ok. Let me know if you need anything._

 

**Steve doesn’t want to tell him the truth. What do you think?**

 

_I think Steve’s in charge._

 

**Come on, Nat. Seriously. I hate lying to him.**

 

_Tony’s working on it. If they can’t change him back, we’ll talk about it. You guys ok for now?_

 

**I guess. He’s pretty emotional.**

 

_I guessed that by the pouring rain. He’s probably tired. We’ll let him sleep tonight and in the morning Steve wants to see if he can lift his hammer._

 

**k**

 

Clint leans back and closes his eyes. God, he hopes the Science Bros can get this figured out soon. _The wonder team of Tony, Bruce, and Vision should be enough to solve any problem, right?_ he thinks fuzzily. He could seriously just lay down and go to sleep right here on the floor. Yeah, that’s a good idea.

 

“Cwint?” Thor calls from the bathroom. Clint’s eyes fly open. Right, he’s got a kid to take care of. 

 

“Yeah, buddy?”

 

“I’m all done but I don’t under’tan dese cwothes,” Thor’s voice is perplexed.

 

“Can I come in?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Clint heaves himself up off the floor and goes into to the bathroom to find Thor wearing the t-shirt, which comes down nearly to his knees, and holding the jeans and belt clutched in his hand. He looks cleaner (and smells better), although his hair is still a tangled mess.

 

“Can you help me?”

 

“Sure, pal.” Clint takes the jeans, turns them the right direction, and holds them open. Thor puts a steadying hand on Clint’s shoulder while he steps into the jeans, then Clint pulls them up and buttons them. They are much too loose and too long, as Clint had predicted. As soon as he lets go, the jeans fall down to Thor’s knees.

 

Clint pulls them back up and holds them there. “Here, hold those up, ok?”

 

“Dey’re too big,” Thor says, with one little hand gripping Clint’s shoulder and the other clutching the waistband of the pants. “Dey won’t ‘tay up.”

 

“That’s what the belt is for.” Clint threads the belt through the loops and cinches it up as tight as it will go, but it is still sloppy loose. When he lets go of the jeans, they slide down around Thor’s hips.

 

“Here, let’s fix that. Just hold still.” Clint pulls out his pocketknife and cuts an extra hole in the belt. This time when he buckles it, the pants stay up, although the tail of the belt sticks out almost a foot to the side. The jeans are also far too long, so Clint rolls them up until Thor’s little bare toes are visible. The effect is completely ridiculous, but it will have to do for the moment until they can get some better fitting clothes. Now to work on that hair. 

 

Clint picks Thor up under the armpits and sits him on the counter while he gets out Lila’s miracle detangler. “Just hold still, we’re going to fix your hair,” he says, squirting some of the goop into his palm and rubbing his hands together. Thor sits as if frozen while Clint distributes it through his hair and tries to work the tangles out with his fingers. When he has most of the tangles out, Clint stands back and inspects his work. It’s not perfect, but it will have to do for now. At least it’s no longer sticking up all over his head like blackberry brambles. 

 

Thor looks up at him, and Clint is taken aback by how. . . is _adorable_ an ok word for a Norse God? Even if it’s not, it’s the only way to describe this kid. Big, piercing blue eyes; sweet rounded cheeks, wavy golden hair offset by dark lashes and eyebrows. Shit. No wonder the ladies are falling all over him.

 


	5. Peamut Bummer Jewwy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint makes Thor a sandwich. Thor doesn't eat the sandwich.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that archive warning? It starts to apply here. No graphic details, but still.

Clint washes the detangler off of his hands while Thor holds onto his arm because apparently the kid is afraid Clint will disappear if he lets go. “Ok, how about something to eat?”

 

“No fank you,” Thor says, shaking his head vigorously.

 

“Aren’t you hungry?”

 

“No.” Thor’s stomach rumbles, giving lie to his words. Now why wouldn’t the kid want to eat?

 

“Well, your tummy is saying you are, so let’s eat.”

 

“What can I eat?”

 

“What do you want to eat?”

 

“I want mani berries.”

 

“Um. . . I don’t have those, but I do have peanut butter and jelly.”

 

“Peamut bummer jewwy? I don’t wike dat.”

 

Clint snorts in amusement. “Yes, you do. In fact, it’s your—well, I’m sure it will be your favorite food.” They’ll have to go to the communal kitchen to make a sandwich. Clint doesn’t keeps peanut butter in his apartment because Lila is allergic and he doesn’t want her to die. Clint is a good dad like that. 

 

“Come on, let’s go downstairs.” Clint holds out his hand, but Thor doesn’t take it, instead lifting up his arms to be carried. _So we’re doing this, are we?_ Clint thinks. _Ok, fine. Just this once._

 

He scoops up the kid and sits him on his hip. One arm wraps around Clint’s neck and the other hand grips the front of Clint’s shirt as they head out the door. Thor’s eyes have gone observant again, darting around the unfamiliar hallway and staircase like he’s afraid something is going to jump out at him around every corner.

 

In the kitchen, Clint tries to put him down, but Thor is having none of it. His arms tighten around Clint’s neck until they almost cut off his supply of oxygen.

 

“Ok, ok, I won’t put you on the floor, but can you at least sit on the counter so I can make you something to eat?”

 

Thor looks hesitantly at the counter for a moment before nodding, so Clint sits him down on the counter, where he draws up his legs to sit criss-cross, toes peeking out from the cuffs of the jeans.

 

Clint quickly grabs the peanut butter, strawberry jelly, and bread and starts assembling the sandwich. Thor’s brows furrow as he anxiously watches every move.

 

“Hey Thor, how old are you?” Clint asks while he spreads on the peanut butter.

 

“What does dat mean?”

 

“Never mind.” He spreads the jelly onto the bread and then holds up the spoon. “Do you want to lick the spoon?”

 

“No.”

 

“Ok, then I will.” Clint sticks the spoon in his mouth and licks off the jelly while making a little “yum” noise. “That’s good. It tastes sweet,” he assures the kid, who is still watching skeptically.

 

Clint cuts the sandwich into quarters, discards the spoon and knife in the sink, then sweeps up the kid with one arm and carries the plate in the other hand to the table. When he tries to sit Thor down on a chair, Thor says, “I want to sit on your wap.”

 

“Oookay.” Clint sits down and puts the kid on his lap. “There you go. Eat up.”

 

Thor leans in and inspects the sandwich from different angles, then sniffs it cautiously but doesn’t touch it.

 

“Come on, bud, it’s good. You like it.”

 

Thor shoots a glance at Clint, then slowly picks up one quarter of the sandwich and takes a very careful nibble out of one corner. He chews, eyes half-closed, for a few seconds, then takes another larger bite.

 

“Do you like that?”

 

Thor nods, mouth still full of sandwich.

 

“See, I told you.”

 

Thor finishes the first triangle, leaving most of the crust behind, and starts on the second. He is chewing more slowly now. After only a couple more bites, Thor stops chewing with a mouthful of sandwich. His hand falls and the rest of the triangle tumbles out onto the table. His head drops heavily against Clint’s shoulder.

 

Clint cranes around to try to see his face but the shaggy hair is in the way. “Thor?” he whispers. The only answer is a light snore. The kid has fallen asleep mid-bite, effectively trapping Clint at the table. Damn. He shoulda fixed himself some dinner too, because the last time he ate was before they left for Estonia and he’s starving.

 

Well, there’s a half-eaten sandwich on the table in front of him, and it doesn’t look like the kid is in any condition to finish it. Clint picks up a triangle and examines it: the jam is oozing out and has soaked into the bread, and there’s a slobbery bite taken out of the corner, but Clint’s had worse. With a sigh, he stuffs the wedge into his mouth and chews thoughtfully.

 

_The first couple of months after Thor returned from the ruins of Asgard, he moped around the tower while New York flooded and floundered under a constant downpour. Finally Clint had had enough. He found Thor hiding in his quarters and dragged him up to the roof, where Clint had been trying in vain to start a rooftop garden._

 

 _“Look out there, Thor. You say you have no home, but_ this _is your home!” Clint said, pointing out to the city. “You say you have no people, but_ these _are your people.” He wiped the rain from his eyes. “And you are drowning them.”_

 

_Thor stood facing the city, arms tightly folded and jaw clenched. “Are you telling me that if I make the rain stop, these people will accept me?” he said with a half-sneer. This new cynical, jaded Thor was painful to watch. Clint dearly missed the easy-going, enthusiastic, trusting Thor who threw himself wholeheartedly into every endeavor, almost as much as he missed blue skies._

 

_“No, I’m saying these people already accept you! And we do too. . . And my fucking strawberries need some sunshine.”_

 

_The corner of Thor’s mouth tipped up into the first hint of a smile that Clint had seen in months. “I like strawberries,” he said in a rough voice. The dark clouds shifted to reveal a small patch of blue directly overhead._

 

_“Yeah, pal, me too.” Clint said, thumping Thor on the shoulder. “Me too.”_

 

Clint is almost done with the sandwich when a noise interrupts his thoughts. He looks up to see Bruce standing in the doorway to the kitchen, that same heart-melty expression on his face that Cho and Nat had made.

 

“Hey Bruce,” Clint says wearily.

 

“Hey. Want some coffee?”

 

“That would be great, Thanks.”

 

“Sure.” Bruce keeps his eyes fixed on Thor on the way to the coffeemaker. “That’s really him, huh?” he says.

 

“Yep, Wanda says so.”

 

“Does he. . . remember anything?” There is the clink of Bruce getting cups out, then the burbling of the coffee starting to pour into the pot.

 

“Just being a kid on Asgard. Nothing else.” Clint yawns into his hand and scoots the chair back. Thor is a dead weight, and Clint’s butt is falling asleep in the hard chair. He lifts the kid and carefully turns him around, then moves to the couch in the common room and sits gingerly with Thor straddling him, cheek against Clint’s chest. Ah, much better, he thinks as he leans back against the sofa and closes his eyes.

 

“Here you go,” Bruce says. Clint holds out his hand and Bruce puts a hot cup of coffee in it. He takes a hesitant sip and finds it the perfect temperature and fixed exactly the way he likes it, with a spoonful of cream and no fucking sugar because sugar does not belong in coffee. 

 

“Oh, god, thank you so much.”

 

“No problem.” Bruce says to Clint, but he’s looking at the kid: his soft, round face squished up against Clint’s chest; the purple-black bruise ringing his eye, his blocky little man-hands folded into the fabric of Clint’s shirt. 

 

“Maybe it’s better he doesn't remember,” Bruce says in a wistful voice. He stretches out a hand and lays it lightly on Thor’s back, watches it rise and fall with his sleep-breaths—slow on the inhale, quick on the exhale. “Loki’s latest betrayal broke him. He cried for days. He tried to hide it but I could tell. He loves his brother so much, and wants so badly to trust him, but Loki keeps hurting him over and over.”

 

Clint can’t talk about Loki. Even six years later, the emotions are too raw. “What’s going to happen to him if we can’t fix this? He’s like over a thousand years old, right?”

 

“I don’t know. I asked him once how old he was and he said they don’t count age that way. No axial tilt on Asgard,” Bruce holds up a hand at an incline to illustrate, “so no seasons and no years like we count them.”

 

“Well, how long will he be a kid? How long will it take him to grow up?”

 

“I don’t now, probably a long time. The Aesir’s childhood is much longer than humans, although not very long in comparison to their lifetimes.”

 

Clint brushes away a lock of Thor’s hair that’s tickling his nose. “If he stays like this, I’m going to get old and die before he grows up. Who’s going to take care of him then?”

 

“We all will. We’ll figure it out, Clint. You’re not alone in this.”

 

Clint makes a face. “So far I am, because he won’t let anyone else touch him. He’s kind of a mess.”

 

“He was already a mess,” Bruce says with a sad half-smile. “Tony and Vision and I are working on that stone. We’ll figure it out. In the meantime, if you need something, let us know. We’ll help you.”

 

“Ok, thanks, Bruce.”

 

Bruce gives Thor a tender pat on the back and pushes himself up off the couch. “I gotta get back. I’ll check in with you later, ok? I want to meet him for real.”

 

“You bet.” 

 

Clint sits for several minutes after Bruce leaves the room. He could easily fall asleep right there and then, but the lights are on, and his quarters are a mess, and his arm is already going numb from Thor’s weight. It would be better to get back to his own quarters and let the kid sleep in a real bed.

 

Awkwardly, he works his way to his feet without waking the kid. When he gets to his quarters, he takes Thor to the kids’ bedroom and manages to lay him down in Cooper’s bed without waking him. Winning!

 

Working the knots out of his shoulder with the heel of his hand, he goes into the bathroom to start cleaning up. The tub is still filled with gray-brown water from all the dirt that came off Thor, so Clint drains it, then uses the discarded towel to wipe up the water that had dripped onto the floor. Thor’s filthy cape is wadded up next to the toilet, so Clint balls it up and tosses it down the laundry chute along with the towel. Good enough for now. It wouldn’t pass Laura’s standards of clean, but Clint is exhausted so he decides he’ll deal with the dirt on the floor tomorrow.

 

He goes out to the living room and flops down on the couch before he remembers that he’s hungry. Just so tired. He’ll get something to eat in a bit, just needs to rest his eyes for a minute.

 

He’s half-asleep when Friday’s voice jolts him back awake again. “Mr. Barton, Sergeant Barnes is outside the door.”

 

“Huh? Why?”

 

“I don’t know. I assume he wants to speak to you.”

 

What the hell would Bucky want to speak to him about? Bucky doesn’t do things like ‘drop in on teammates’ and ‘speak’. “Well, did he knock?”

 

“No. He started to several times but didn’t follow through. Now he is pacing.”

 

Fuck. Clint goes to the door and pulls it open to find Bucky Fucking Barnes standing against the wall with his hands in his pockets. Bucky looks up then quickly away again, but says nothing. Big surprise.

 

“Hi Bucky,” Clint says.

 

Bucky:

 

“Want to come in?”

 

Still nothing, but Bucky does push himself off the wall and edges past Clint into the living room, so that’s progress, Clint supposes. Now if he was just telepathic like Wanda, he could maybe figure out what the hell the man wanted.

 

“What’s up?”

 

The fingers of Bucky’s metal hand flex. _This hand is not a threat_ , Clint reminds himself, but he can’t help but notice it. It’s impossible not to.

 

“Where’s the kid?” Bucky says hoarsely. Words. Yes, words are good.

 

“He’s asleep.”

 

“Doc check him out?”

 

Is that what this is about? Why would Bucky care? “Yes. She said it’s just bumps and bruises.”

 

Bucky rocks back and forth on his heels. His eyes dart around the room. Observant, like Thor. Bucky usually looks like he’s resigned to a fight, but now, he looks. . . anxious? Do scary ex-Soviet assassins get anxious? Bucky’s metal fingers open and close, noiselessly. Clint wonders if he oils them to keep them from squeaking. Miraculously, he prevents his stupid mouth from actually asking.

 

“Did you need something—“

 

“She check if—“ Bucky interrupts in a tight voice, then stops. Freezes. Stares at an indiscriminate point on the wall. Breathes raggedly. _What the hell?_

 

“Check what?”

 

“If he was sexually assaulted.”

 

Oh god. 

 

Oh _god_ , those hollow eyes. 

 

Clint’s fingers clench themselves into fists. God, he wants to hit something. Anything. He should have known. He should have _fucking known_. He should have recognized that traumatized look. It was the same look he had seen in the mirror at age six, after the woman he called grandma, the woman who was supposed to care for and protect him, sold his innocence to a sweaty man in a business suit. Almost forty years later and Clint still gets sick to his stomach at the smell of Old Spice.

 

“No, he would barely let her touch him. I’ll have to take him back.” Clint squeezes his eyes shut, remembering. “He has a fucking _bite mark_ on his shoulder. God _dammit._ ”

 

Bucky swallows hard but says nothing else. He’s got those hollow eyes too. 

 

 _Fuck_.

 


	6. Chocowate Ice Cream and metoh arm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor gets introduced to chocolate ice cream and Bucky's metal arm. He likes them both.

“Steve know what happened to you?” Clint says. It comes out gruffer than he intended. The guy is a victim too, he reminds himself. It’s not his fault.

 

Bucky’s metal fingers open and close. He stares at the wall like he’s trying to bore a hole in it. “No, and I ain’t telling him either. Just take the kid back to the doc.” Bucky stomps out the door without looking back.

 

Clint punches a hole in the wall.

 

Damn, that _hurts_.

 

“Friday, I’m gonna need that fixed,” he says to the ceiling.

 

“I’m on it, Mr. Barton,” comes Friday's implacable voice. 

 

Clint wraps his throbbing left hand in his right and just breathes through his nose. No wonder the kid was such a goddamn mess. No wonder he didn’t want Clint in the bathroom when he took the cape off. No wonder he didn’t want the doctor to touch him. 

 

In the silence, a flash of lightning illuminates the apartment, followed immediately by a crack of thunder, then a hoarse, high-pitched scream coming from the bedroom. _Shit_! 

 

Clint races to the bedroom where he finds Thor sitting bolt upright, hair spiked with sweat and eyes blown wide in terror. Lightning flashes again, followed by another boom, and suddenly a deluge of rain is lashing at the windows. Shit, is it going to be like this every time the kid gets scared? New Yorkers better start building an ark.

 

“Thor, Thor, calm down, buddy. It’s all right, calm down, calm down. You’re safe,” Clint rambles, “it’s ok, it’s ok.” He’s afraid to touch the kid, not sure how much he’s tracking with reality right now.

 

Thor recoils in fear as another flash lights up the room and a thunderbolt booms right outside the window. “Cwint!” he screams, “CWINT!”

 

“Thor, I’m here. I’m right here, pal. You’re safe.” Clint moves closer and Thor throws himself at him. His arms wrap tightly around Clint’s neck, ropey muscles trembling violently.

 

“I fought you weft,” Thor sobs. “I fought you weft!”

 

Clint smooths down his sweat-damp hair. “No, Thor, I wouldn’t leave. I won’t leave you. You’re safe here.” 

 

The rain is still pounding against the windows, although the thunder and lightning seem to have died down now. Clint pulls Thor onto his lap and just rocks him. “It’s ok, pal. I’m here. You’re safe,” he murmurs into Thor's hair, until his trembling slows and his grip on Clint’s neck loosens.

 

“Thor, even if you can’t find me, there’s always someone you can call for help here.”

 

“Who?” Thor sniffles.

 

“Her name is Friday, and she’s the building.”

 

“Wike a ‘pirit?”

 

“. . . a pirit?”

 

“Yes, wike dead people. Dey’re ‘cary.”

 

“Oh, a spirit! No, she’s not a dead person and she’s not scary. She’ll always answer you and she’ll get you help. Want to try to talk to her?”

 

Thor’s grip on Clint’s neck tightens again, but he swallows hard and nods.

 

“Friday? Can you say hello to Thor?” 

 

“Hello, Thor,” Friday says, “I’m glad to meet you.”

 

“See, Thor, she’s nice. And she’s very helpful.”

 

Thor pushes himself deeper into Clint’s embrace and looks around the room a little wild-eyed. “Where is she?”

 

“She doesn’t have a body. She’s. . . she’s the building.”

 

“Woki fies to ‘care me sometimes by frowing his boice, but my mother says it’s jus’ a fick.”

 

“A—a fick?”

 

“No, a _fick_. It’s not real, he’s jus’ ficking me.”

 

“Oh, tricking you?”

 

Thor nods. “Woki’s my brudder. He wikes to fick me.”

 

You don’t know the half of it, kid, Clint thinks. “With Loki it is just a trick, but Friday is real. If you have a problem, she’ll help you. Do you want to say hello to her?”

 

Thor looks at the ceiling. “Hewwo, Friday. I’m pweased to meet you too,” he says solemnly, as if being introduced to the fucking Queen of England.

 

“If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask me,” Friday says. She sounds like she’s smiling, but AI’s can’t smile, can they?

 

“Where is my bwanket?” Thor says, looking around on the bed.

 

“Blanket?”

 

“It’s red and big,” he clarifies. “I can’t sweep wifout it.”

 

Oh, the cape! “I put it in the laundry. They’ll clean it and bring it right back.”

 

“I reawwy need it,” Thor says.  

 

“Friday, can you make sure Thor’s. . . um. blanket gets sent back quickly?” Clint says to the ceiling.

 

“Yes, of course, Mr. Barton.”

 

“Thanks, Friday. See? She’ll take care of it, no need to worry. In the meantime, do you want to borrow a blanket?” Clint leans over and picks up Lila’s old purple baby quilt from the foot of her bed.

 

“Yes, pwease.”

 

Clint wraps the quilt around Thor’s shoulders and he pulls it tightly around himself “Fank you, Cwint. I wike dis bwanket.” His mouth pulls back into an almost-smile that doesn’t reach those bright blue eyes, which are still so goddamn sad and innocent that Clint’s stomach twists itself into knots. He needs to talk to Thor about what Bucky said, but he doesn’t feel comfortable bringing it up in a dark bedroom.

 

Clint scoops Thor up and stands. As he is carrying Thor to the living room, his head cranes around to look at the hole that Clint punched in the wall. “What happened to the wall?” he asks.

 

“Oh, I—uh—I dropped something.” Clint settles them onto the couch, turning so Thor can’t see the hole. “Hey, Thor, I need to ask you something.”

 

Oh, god, those sad, trusting eyes are going to KILL HIM.

 

“What do you want to ask me ‘bout?”

 

“When those bad people had you, did they. . . what did they do to you?”

 

Thor’s face instantly goes hard, eyebrows lowering and jaw tightening. “I don’t want to talk ‘bout dat.”

 

“Well, you don’t have to tell me everything, but if they hurt you, the healer can—“

 

“No!” Thor shouts. “I don’t want to say dat!” A flash of lightning bathes the room in an eerie glow, followed almost immediately by thunder. Thor squirms down off of Clint’s lap and bolts, down the hall toward the bedrooms and bathroom.

 

Shit.

 

Clint gives him a minute, because the hallway is a dead end so it’s not like he can go anywhere. After he counts to ten, with a weary sigh he pushes himself up and heads after the kid. He doesn’t see him in the kids’ room, or his bedroom. When he pushes open the door to the bathroom, it appears empty, but then he hears a muffled sob coming from the cupboard in the corner.

 

He knocks lightly on the cupboard door and says, “Hey buddy, I’ve got ice cream. Want some?”

 

He hears Thor’s sniffle through the door. “No.”

 

“It’s really good. It’s chocolate. Your favorite.” That was stupid, because this little guy is going to start to wonder how Clint knows what his favorites are.

 

Another sniffle. “Go ‘way.”

 

“Nope. Can I come in there with you?”

 

There is a pause, then a little giggle comes from the cupboard. “You won’t fit in here wif me.”

 

Clint grins. “Well, then you’ll have to come out to get the ice cream.”

 

Another pause, then the door slowly opens and Thor crawls out. His face is red, and streaked with tears and dirt where he has been wiping it with hands that are dusty from the cupboard floor.

 

“Ok, time for ice cream.” 

 

“What’s ice cream?”

 

“Oh, kid, you are in for a treat.” Clint holds out his hand for Thor to take, but again the little guy lifts up both arms to be carried, so what can Clint do but pick him up?

 

He sits Thor on the counter in his little kitchen while he dishes them both a bowl of chocolate ice cream. Not the healthiest dinner he’s ever had, but not the worst either. Laura would have been able to whip up some sort of casserole with a remoulade-whatever sauce and sautéed vegetables in her five spare minutes today, but Clint can barely boil water, so ice cream will have to do.

 

Thor sniffs it, then scoops up a big spoonful and stuffs it in his mouth. “Dis is GOOD!” he says with a look of awe on his face.

 

“I’m glad you like it.” Clint takes a spoonful of ice cream while he tries to think of a different tack to take on the subject, one that won’t have Thor running to hide again. “Thor, do you remember Bucky?”

 

“The one wif the ‘cary metoh arm?”

 

“His arm is metal, but he’s not scary,” Clint lies. He has seen Bucky in action enough to know that Bucky _is_ scary. “He protected you, remember? When the bad guys were shooting at us?”

 

“He shot dat man and his head ‘pwoded.”

 

“That was to keep him from hurting you, right?”

 

“Yes, I ‘pose so.”

 

“Well, the bad people hurt him too.”

 

“Dey did? I didn’t see dem.”

 

“They hurt him a long time ago. Would you talk to him about it?”

 

Thor takes another bite of ice cream and stares intently into his bowl while he swallows it. “Do you promise he won’t hurt me?” he says in a small voice.

 

“Yes, I promise.”

 

“All right, I’ll talk to him,” Thor says, digging into the ice cream like he’s starving. Well, maybe he is. He certainly looks like he could use the calories.

 

While he eats, Clint thinks about how he’s going to get Bucky back down here to talk to Thor, which is a complication he hadn’t considered. Taking out his phone, he opens the text thread with Bucky, which is entirely one-sided. He has texted Bucky exactly three times, and Bucky has never once responded. Clint’s not even sure Bucky knows how to text. Well, calling him is even less likely to get a response, so texting it will have to be. The only other option is to sic Friday on him, which is likely to make Bucky mad, so Clint decides that’s Plan B.

 

**Can you come down here and talk to Thor? He won’t talk to me.**

 

Clint shoves the phone into his pocket and looks over at Thor to find that he has abandoned his spoon and now has the bowl tipped up in front of his face licking the inside. Chocolate ice cream is dribbling down the sides of his chin and both wrists and dripping onto his lap.

 

When Thor puts the bowl down, Clint sees that the entire lower half of his face is covered in brown, even the tip of his nose. Good grief, is he going to have give the kid another bath? Maybe ice cream wasn’t such a good idea, especially chocolate.

 

“Did you like that?” Clint asks, amused.

 

“Yeah, dat was good! We don’t have dat at the pawace. Can I take some home for Woki?”

 

_Damn, way to rip my heart out, kid._ “Well, ice cream has to stay frozen, so I don’t think that will work,” Clint hedges. He moves Thor over to the sink and wets a washcloth to start cleaning him up. As he is wiping the chocolate from Thor’s chin, his phone dings in his pocket. He finishes washing the kid’s face then takes the phone out and blinks at it. 

 

Bucky Barnes has texted him back. 

 

True, the text only says _k_ , but hey, it’s a fucking text from Bucky fucking Barnes. On the outside, Clint is still calmly washing Thor’s hands, but on the inside, he is doing a victory dance.

 

Until he remembers the reason that Bucky needs to come down, then he sobers up because _shit_.

 

Clint finishes washing Thor’s hands and tries to put him down on the floor, but Thor catches hold of Clint’s shoulder and doesn’t let go. So apparently Clint is going to be carrying the kid into the living room. Ok, fine. He can do that this time, but it better not become a habit.

 

He is halfway to the couch when there is a knock at the door. Damn, Bucky can move fast when he wants to.

 

“Thor, that’s Bucky at the door. He’s here to talk to you. All right? Can I let him in?”

 

Thor’s fingers clutch Clint’s collar, but his little face sets and he says, “Yes, it’s all right” in his brave voice. Clint carries him to the door and opens it to find Bucky standing there with his hands behind his back and a thousand yard stare and that’s not terrifying _at all_.

 

“Hey, Bucky, good to see you,” Clint says like they’re old friends, which they are so not. It's hard to be friends with someone when your every attempt engage them in conversation has been met with disdainful silence. Thor’s fingernails are digging into the sensitive flesh at the base of Clint’s neck.

 

Bucky:

 

“Come on in.”

 

Bucky:

 

_For fuck’s sake._ This was a shitty idea. This isn’t going to work, but it’s too late to back out now. Clint leaves Bucky standing at the door and goes to sit down on the couch, hoping he’ll follow. Thor tucks the corner of Lila’s quilt into his mouth and starts to chew on it anxiously.

 

It’s a long moment before Bucky takes a step in the door. Still that fucking blank stare. Clint wonders if Bucky knows how intimidating that is. Probably.

 

“Bucky, why don’t you sit in that chair,” Clint says, pointing to the armchair across from them.

 

Bucky still doesn’t say anything, but at least he closes the door and crosses stiffly to the armchair and stands beside it, metal hand still behind his back. Clint sends him mental _stop it_ rays, but they don’t seem to be getting through.

 

“Thor, you remember what I said, right? About Bucky wanting to talk to you?”

 

Thor nods while he warily eyes Bucky’s metal shoulder. Bucky still says nothing. Clint glares at him meaningfully, the meaning being ‘start talking, bucko, cuz you are scaring this kid to death,’ but Bucky isn’t taking the hint.

 

“Bucky? Did you have something to say?”

 

Bucky pulls his arm out from behind his back and Clint is very surprised to see him clutching a teddy bear in his metal hand. After a second he transfers the bear to his right hand and holds it out toward Thor. The bear is wearing a little blue double-breasted jacket and brown pants.

 

“Brought you something,” he says abruptly.

 

Thor blinks at the bear like he’s never seen one before. “What is it?” he says around the blanket which is still stuffed in his mouth.

 

“Bucky Bear.” Bucky’s eyes cut to the side. Is he. . . embarrassed? Bucky Barnes can get embarrassed?

 

“Bucky? Wike you?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Bucky sets the little bear down on the coffee table and sits down in the chair with his arms folded. _Good grief, relax a little, man,_ Clint thinks. _Bringing the kid a teddy bear isn’t going to win you any points if you then sit there and scowl at him like he’s a bug on the bottom of your shoe. Way to scare a kid, Buck_. 

 

Without warning, Thor slides off Clint’s lap and walks (the kid can walk! It’s a miracle!) to the coffee table right next to where Bucky is sitting. He still has the corner of the blanket stuffed into his mouth, but with his other hand, he picks up the Bucky bear and strokes its fur. 

 

“It’s sof’.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Why’s it called a Bucky Bear?”

 

“Named after me.”

 

The corner of the blanket falls out of Thor’s mouth, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he turns the bear over in his hands and inspects it. “It doesn’t have a metoh arm,” he points out. _Good luck, kiddo._ Clint has never heard Bucky talk about his arm, ever. Any attempts to engage in conversation about the arm are always met with a blank stare.

 

“I didn’t used to either.”

 

Thor wraps one arm around the bear and takes another step closer to Bucky, eyes locked on his arm. “What happened to your arm?”

 

Clint holds his breath, waiting to see if Bucky will respond. The muscle in Bucky’s jaw is jumping and his eyes are tight. His adam’s apple bobs up and down in a hard swallow. Clint wants so badly to jump in and respond for him, but he forces himself to sit still and not interfere. 

 

Finally, just as Clint is telling himself he’s an idiot for thinking this would work, Bucky clears his throat and says, “I got hurt.”

 

Another step closer. “Did the bad peopoh hurt you?”

 

“Yes. Same ones who hurt you.”

 

“Does it ‘till hurt?”

 

“Not anymore.”

 

Thor is almost within reach now. He freezes with the bear tucked up under his chin. The blanket has fallen off his shoulders but he doesn’t seem to notice because he is too busy staring at the arm.

 

Bucky leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees, giving Thor a better view of the entire arm. “Do you—do you want to touch it?” 

 

Clint swallows down his gasp of surprise. Thor’s eyes widen in wonder. “May I?”

 

“Yeah, go ahead.”

 

Thor takes another step forward, stretches out his hand and carefully brushes his fingers against the metal plates that form Bucky’s forearm. “It’s warm.”

 

“Yeah. Tony fixed it.”

 

Thor takes another step so now he’s standing next to Bucky’s knee. His face is all concentration as he slides his small hand down to Bucky’s much larger hand and carefully manipulates one finger, and Bucky LETS HIM. Not only lets him, but the corner of Bucky’s mouth curls up in the barest hint of a smile. Shit, now Clint’s the one making the gooey melty-heart face. As soon as he realizes it, he quickly schools his expression back to neutral.

 

While Thor is manipulating the huge metal fingers in his tiny ones, Bucky shoots a glance at Clint, clears his throat and says, “Thor, you can. . . ask me questions. About what they did. If you want.”

 

More than a minute passes where Thor just silently explores the metal arm and hand, before he finally says, in a very quiet voice, “Did dey hit you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Did dey pull your hair?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Did dey put shackos on you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Did you cry?”

 

Bucky glances up at Clint again, and then quickly away. “Yes, a lot.”

 

“Did dey waugh at you when you cried?”

 

“. . . Yes.”

 

“Did dey tell you your mother and father didn’t want you anymore?”

 

Clint has to work hard to control his breathing. He doesn’t want to put any more holes in the walls.

 

“No, but they. uh. they said my friend Stevie didn’t want me.”

 

Thor turns Bucky’s hand over and probes the knuckles with his fingertips. “Did dey take your cwothes off?”

 

Bucky’s adam’s apple bobs again. “Yeah.” 

 

Thor looks up into Bucky’s face, eyes wide and innocent. “Did dey chain you to a table on your ‘tomach?”

 

“Yes, they did.”

 

His voice drops to a haunted whisper. “Did dey do bad fings to you?”

 

“Yeah.” Bucky’s voice cracks. God, Clint wants to punch something so bad.

 

“Did it hurt a wot?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Did you tell the heawer?”

 

“No. Wasn’t any healer to tell.”

 

“How about wayter?” Thor asks earnestly. “Did you tell Heawer Cho?”

 

Bucky looks surprised. “No, I didn’t.”  He cuts his eyes to Clint. Clint raises his eyebrows, and Bucky adds hastily, “But I shoulda.”

 

“Maybe. . . maybe we can bof tell her togeder.”

 

Bucky:

 

“Will you go wif me, Bucky?”

 

Bucky:

 

Bucky is silent for so long that Clint starts to get nervous. Thor is still playing with his metal hand; If Bucky has a meltdown, Thor could easily get hurt. Clint is about to reach out to pull Thor out of harm’s way when Bucky says “Yeah, ok, we’ll go together.”

 

Thor smiles, the first real smile Clint has seen since they found him, and starts pulling on Bucky’s hand. “Wet’s go. Heawer Cho has wondipops dat tas’ wike sunshine.”

 

Bucky gives Clint a confused look, so he clarifies “Butterscotch lollipops.”

 

“Oh.” Bucky looks down at Thor, who is gazing up at him, eyes shining with adoration. “I like butterscotch.”

 

“Me too. I wike butter’cotch too.” Thor wraps the purple quilt back around his shoulders and tucks the Bucky bear under one arm. Then he holds the other arm up to Clint, obviously wanting to be picked up. So that’s how it’s going to be, huh? Well, ok, this time.

 


	7. Heawer again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Cho gets a different patient than she was expecting. She rolls with it, because she is awesome like that.

* * *

 

 

Clint texts ahead to Cho on the way, awkwardly with his right hand while carrying Thor with his left.

 

**We’re coming back. We missed something.**

 

By the time they get to the hallway leading to the infirmary, Thor has his arms tightly wound around Clint’s neck and his face is pressed in hard against Clint’s collarbone. The bear is clutched in one sweaty fist. Clint is having trouble breathing, but it’s not entirely due to Thor’s arms cutting off his air. His throat has a lump in it that won’t swallow down and his lungs refuse to inflate.

 

Bucky stalks along silently just behind Clint’s shoulder. Clint can’t see or hear him at the moment, so he just has to trust he’s still there and hasn’t taken off and left them. Clint’s surprised he got this far, to be honest. He thought Bucky was going to bolt the second Thor asked about his arm. The bare fact that he agreed to accompany Thor to the infirmary is a miracle in itself in Clint’s opinion.

 

Cho is waiting for them in the lobby. If she’s surprised to see Bucky with them, she doesn’t show it. Cho is awesome like that. “Hi, guys,” she says brightly, “what’s up?”

 

There is a moment of awkward silence where Thor clings to Clint with his face hidden, and Bucky stares wordlessly at the wall. There is a tremor running through Thor’s whole body, and Clint can feel little fingernails digging into the back of his neck. Outside, the rain pours down in sheets.

 

“You guys want to come on into an exam room?” Cho says after a minute, looking back and forth between Bucky and Thor. 

 

Bucky doesn’t move, so Clint decided he’d better take the lead or they’re going to be standing there all day just staring at each other. 

 

“Good idea.” Clint heads toward the exam room with Thor in his arms. At the doorway he looks back at Bucky, who is still standing frozen in the lobby pale as a sheet. There is a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. “Bucky? You ready?” Clint keeps his tone matter-of-fact, like Natasha had back in the Hydra base, hoping it will prevent another freakout. Clint doesn't know if he can handle a Bucky freakout without Steve, and Bucky doesn't want Steve to know what happened to him, so. . .

 

The muscle in Bucky’s jaw is jumping and his eyes dart around the lobby. Observant. Wary. But then his gaze locks on Thor’s hand clutching the Bucky bear, and he swallows hard and follows Clint into the exam room without protest, which is good because Clint has no other tricks up his sleeve.

 

Even though Cho closes the door quietly, Thor startles at the sound and his arms tighten around Clint’s neck. His nose presses into the hollow of Clint’s throat and his sweaty hair tickles Clint’s chin. Clint bounces him a little, like he used to do with his babies when they were small. “It’s ok, buddy,” he whispers into Thor’s ear, and gets a tiny whimper in response.

 

Bucky lurks next to the wall just inside the doorway, metal fingers opening and closing noiselessly. When none of them say anything, Cho raises her eyebrows at Clint, obviously waiting for him to take the lead since she doesn’t know why they’re there. 

 

 _Shit_. 

 

Clint chews the inside of his cheek. Neither Thor nor Bucky seem to be in any condition to talk about what happened, but one of them is going to have to tell Cho what’s going on, and Bucky is the adult in this situation, so. . .

 

“Bucky, go ahead and sit on the exam table,” Clint says in his Dad Voice, “and Thor and I will sit here on the chair.” Clint sits down with Thor on his lap, not really giving Bucky any option other than the table. Except, well, he does have another option, doesn’t he? He could leave. The door is right there, and no one is blocking it.

 

Bucky’s gaze goes back and forth between the door and the table for a second, and then drops to Thor, who is still huddled in Clint’s arms, with the bear held tightly in one fist and the other holding the corner of the blanket in his mouth. 

 

Bucky goes and sits on the exam table. 

 

The knuckles on his flesh hand are white and the fingers of metal hand are practically denting the edge of the table he’s gripping it so hard, but he’s sitting. Cho, to her credit, seems completely unfazed by the fact that she’s suddenly treating a different patient. She just stands in front of him and waits expectantly.

 

Thor has sat up a little and is watching Bucky with wide eyes while his little jaw works on the corner of the quilt. His sweaty hair is sticking up in the front where he had it mashed against Clint’s shoulder and his cheek is lined with the imprint of the collar of Clint’s shirt. Bucky still doesn’t say anything, but his eyes flick to Thor and the corner of his mouth quirks up the tiniest bit. 

 

Bucky’s gaze flits to Cho, and then back to the wall where it stays. His adam’s apple jumps again in another hard swallow. Clint’s heart is pounding because he knows that fear, that lump in the throat, preventing the words from coming out, and he hopes Bucky is able to get over it because there’s no way the little guy can do this on his own.

 

Finally Bucky breaks the silence by saying in a raspy voice, “I have to tell you something." Cho just waits patiently while he clears his throat. “When—uh—when Hydra—“ Bucky shoots another glance at Thor “—when the bad guys had me, they hurt me. They—“ He breaks off, breathing hard through his nose. Clint can see the muscles in his arms trembling.

 

Clint is surprised when Thor slides off his lap. He goes over to Bucky and slips his little hand into Bucky’s metal hand, his shaggy blond head tips back, and he gazes into Bucky’s face with big, trusting eyes. Bucky stares down at their joined hands. His thumb brushes lightly over the back of Thor’s dimpled fingers. Clint holds his breath, willing him to have the courage to continue. He clears his throat again and continues. “They raped me,” he says in a rough voice. “They—uh—it hurt a lot.”

 

Cho takes Bucky’s flesh hand in her left and wraps her other arm around Thor’s small shoulders. “Bucky, I want you to listen to me,” she says. Bucky keeps staring at their hands, but he doesn’t pull away. She continues in a very gentle voice, “I want you to know it’s not your fault. You weren’t bad.”

 

Bucky’s gaze snaps up to meet hers and locks on. “You were very brave to tell me,” Cho says, “I’m proud of you.” Clint thinks Cho is wasting her breath, because Bucky doesn’t care about anyone’s opinion of him, obv— _oh,_ Bucky’s eyes are brimming. 

 

Cho releases his hand, and he quickly turns his head and palms away the tears. Bucky is _crying_. Big scary assassin dude is crying, and Clint can’t decide whether he wants to hug him or throw up. Probably neither of those are a good choice in this situation, because Bucky’s body language is definitely not inviting a hug right now. Or _ever_.

 

Cho turns to Thor, who is watching all of this wide-eyed. “Thor, would you like to sit up here next to Bucky?”

 

“Yes, pwease.”

 

Cho lifts Thor up and sets him on the exam table beside Bucky, with his bare feet dangling, just his toes visible below the hem of the too-long jeans. His small hand still clutches one of Bucky’s metal fingers. Cho takes his other hand in hers and waits expectantly, while Thor stares down at his lap. _Come on, kiddo, you can do this,_ Clint thinks, even though he’s not sure that’s true.

 

Thor looks up at Bucky, who gives him a small nod. “I hafta tell you somefing too,” he says in that brave voice that breaks Clint’s heart. “The bad guys did that bad ‘tuff to me too.”

 

“It’s not your fault, sweetheart. You didn’t do anything wrong. And I’m proud of you for being so brave too.”

 

Thor sits up a little straighter and looks back up at Bucky again, eyes shining. “Good job, kiddo,” Bucky says with a smile. A goddamn honest-to-goodness smile.

 

“Thor, I need to check how much they hurt you, in case you need any medicine or other help,” Cho says. Thor’s shoulders tense and his hand tightens around Bucky’s fingers. “I promise it won’t hurt. I might have to touch you, but I’ll always tell you first. Are you ready?”

 

“Can Bucky go firs’?” Thor asks fearfully. He is gripping the teddy bear so hard Clint is afraid its head is going to pop off.

 

“Oh. Umm. . .” Cho bites her lip. She glances up at Bucky, then back to Thor. “I don’t—“

 

“Yeah, I’ll go first.” Bucky says. Clint about falls out of his chair.

 

Cho clears her throat. “Ok, that’s fine. Here you go, Bucky.” She hands him a folded gown. “Clint and Thor, you can wait outside. Bucky, I’ll step out while you get changed.”

 

“Ok.”

 

Clint jumps up and holds his hands out for Thor. “Come on, pal, you heard the lady. Let’s wait outside.”

 

Thor squeezes and releases Bucky’s hand, then lets himself be picked up and carried out of the room, looking back anxiously at Bucky the entire way. Clint sits down in the lobby with Thor on his lap. The kid is chewing furiously on the corner of the quilt and his big eyes are locked on the closed door to the exam room. 

 

“Can we go in dere?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Bucky needs privacy.”

 

“Is the heawer hurting him?”

 

“No, she won’t hurt him.”

 

“I fink we need to go in dere.”

 

“Nope.”

 

“I need to hold his hand so he won’t be ‘cared.”

 

“He won't be scared. He wants privacy.”

 

“But what if—“

 

“Hey, how about we watch a movie on my phone?”

 

“What’s a mobie?”

 

“Here, check this out.” Clint pulls out his phone and opens up Aladdin, which he knows for a fact is one of grown-up Thor’s favorites. Thor immediately stops talking and stares at the screen mesmerized. The corner of the quilt falls out of his mouth unheeded. 

 

“Dis is a mobie?” he says in awe.

 

“Yep.”

 

“How did dey get in dere?”

 

“Who?”

 

“Dose widdle peopoh. How did dey get in your phone?”

 

“It’s not real people. It’s like a drawing.”

 

“Oh,” Thor says, but his eyebrows are still knitted together in confusion. He takes Clint’s phone and turns it over to inspect the back.

 

“How are dey mobing?”

 

“Just watch.” Clint turns the phone back over and holds it up in front of Thor’s face, and Thor immediately goes silent. He has completely frozen in place with his mouth slack and his gaze fixed on the tiny screen. Clint think it’s probably not healthy how immersed Thor gets in the “mobie.” He barely even moves for over fifteen minutes, while Clint’s arm falls asleep from holding the phone still, until Cho finally comes out and says they’re done.

 

Clint shuts off the movie, and Thor suddenly blinks and shakes his head like he’s been in a trance. “Huh?” he says, even though no one has asked him a question.

 

“Bucky’s just getting dressed, then it’s your turn,” Cho says with a smile. Thor’s fingers close on Clint’s sleeve, but he just nods without protesting.

 

“We can watch the rest of the movie later, ok?”

 

“All right,” Thor says. His eyes have gone observant again, damn it. He’s obviously trying to be brave, but his tightly clenched hand and wobbly lip are saying otherwise. Clint’s stomach hurts because this is just so unfair. 

 

A minute later Bucky comes out of the exam room. He won’t make eye contact with Clint, but when he looks at Thor, the corner of his mouth pulls back. “Hey, kiddo.”

 

“Did dat hurt, Bucky?”

 

“Nope. You ready?”

 

“Yes.” 

 

Thor insists that both Clint and Bucky come into the exam room with him, but then when it’s time to get dressed, he wants “pribacy.”

 

“Want us to leave?” Bucky asks, confused.

 

“No, don’t weave!”

 

“How about this,” Clint suggests, “We’ll pull the curtain around the exam area and sit right outside? See how the curtain doesn’t go all the way down? You’ll be able to see our feet.”

 

“Dat’s a good idea, Cwint,” Thor says solemnly.

 

“Let me just help you with that belt,” Clint says, putting Thor down on the exam table on his feet. Thor stands still while Clint unbuckles the belt. “Can you get the rest of it?”

 

“Yes, Cwint, I can do it.”

 

Clint and Bucky wait outside the curtain, both with their arms folded stiffly in identical awkward postures, looking everywhere but at each other, while Thor gets changed. When they go back in, Thor is sitting on the table with his bare feet dangling, dressed in the oversized gown that comes down almost to his bruised ankles. He has the quilt wrapped around his shoulders and he is hugging the bear against his chest. He looks so tiny and vulnerable that Clint suddenly wants to scoop him up and carry him out of there. But he doesn’t, because Thor has his brave face on, and Clint’s not going to interfere with that, no matter how much it hurts.

 

“Do you want me to hold your hand, Thor?” Clint asks.

 

Thor shakes his head and points to Bucky. Bucky’s eyebrows disappear up under his hair. When Clint cocks his head at him, he clears his throat and says, “You—uh—you want me to hold your hand?”

 

“Yes, Bucky.” Thor holds out his hand, a tiny bridge stretched out, searching for its other half.

 

“Uh—yeah, sure—that’s—yeah. Ok,” Bucky stutters. He steps up and takes Thor’s hand in his flesh hand. Clint pushes the chair up behind Bucky and presses down on his shoulder until he sits.

 

On the outside, Clint is leaning casually against the counter watching Bucky hold Thor’s hand, and hearing the kid choke back sobs, and saying stupid things like _You’re doing a good job Thor_ and _Almost done pal_ and _I’m so sorry it hurts,_ and telling him stories about being in the circus to distract him while Cho stitches him up because her fucking miracle Cradle doesn’t work on Asgard anatomy. But on the inside. . . On the inside Clint’s blood is boiling while he imagines ripping those assholes limb from limb for what they did to the kid. However they died, it was too good for them. They should have suffered. They shoulda had their eyelashes pulled out one by one. They shoulda had their guts sliced open and fed to them. They shoulda—

 

Oh, Cho is putting away her supplies and helping Thor sit up, so she’s done and it’s over and Thor is still putting on his _Being Brave_ face even though he’s sniffling and his eyes are red and his lower lip is wobbly. _Fuck being brave. Cry if you want to, kiddo. You’ve earned it._

 

After Clint helps Thor get dressed (because _I don’t wanna be awone right now, Cwint_ goddammit _)_ , he wraps the blanket around him and opens the curtain where Bucky and Dr. Cho are waiting. Clint sees Bucky’s observant gaze take in Thor’s teary face and the way his little fingers clutch Clint’s collar.

 

“I heard there were lollipops,” Bucky says with a crooked pasted-on grin. _Ah, bless him_. Thor returns the smile through his tears.

 

Cho smiles broadly. “Yes there are.” She hands a lollipop to Thor, who knows exactly what to do with it this time, then offers one to Bucky as well. He takes it and pops it into his mouth and Clint wonders what dimension he has traveled to because there’s a ex-Soviet assassin eating a lollipop and grinning at Thor like the cat who got the canary.

 

“Do you wike dat, Bucky?” Thor asks.

 

“Yep. You’re right, these do taste like sunshine,” Bucky says. Thor’s face lights up bright as Christmas.

 

“You hungry, Thor?” Clint asks. “We can get something to eat next.”

 

“Yes,” Thor says, holding out his arms to be picked up. _Seriously? I know you’ve got feet, kid,_ Clint thinks _._ “Bucky, can you come wif us?” the kid pipes hopefully.

 

“Actually, Bucky, do you mind staying for a minute?” Cho asks.

 

Bucky looks back and forth between Thor and Cho for a second, then shrugs. “Okay.”

 

Thor is still standing on the exam table with his arms out. His little face falls, and Clint fucking caves, folds like a straw man, and picks him up. After what the kid's been through, it won't hurt for him to be carried every once in a while. “Come on, Thor, let’s go get something to eat.”

 

Thor grabs onto Clint’s neck, but he’s looking back over his shoulder longingly at Bucky. “What does Heawer Cho want to talk to Bucky ‘bout?”

 

“I have no idea. I think there’s Pop-tarts in the communal kitchen,” Clint says on the way out the door.

 

“What’s a top-parts?”

 

“Pop-tart. It’s a treat. You’ll like it.”

 

“I don’t fink I wike it.”

 

“You’ll like it. Trust me.”

 

Thor turns the full force of his innocent gaze on Clint. “I do fus’ you, Cwint. You’d neber wie to me.”

 

_Jesus, kid, just stomp on my heart, why don't you?_


	8. Pot-Parts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, the dangers of baby shampoo.

* * *

 

 

Clint toasts up four Pop-tarts while Thor sits on the counter hugging his bear and watching. That should be enough, right? Two for the kid and two for Clint? Laura would say a kid that size shouldn’t eat more than two Pop-tarts anyway, probably send him into sugar shock.

 

He sets the Pop-tarts on the counter (why bother to dirty a plate?) and goes to the fridge to get the milk. By the time he gets back, two of the Pop-tarts have disappeared and Thor, mouth ringed with crumbs, is reaching for the third.

 

Thor stuffs half of the Pop-tart in his mouth and crows “I wike dese!”, spitting crumbs all over the counter. The rest of the Pop-tart disappears before Clint can even protest, then Thor licks the filling off his hand, which doesn’t really help because more red goo transfers from his tongue to his skin than the other way around. He grabs the last one, then stops with it clutched in his slobbery little paw. “Can I have anudder one?”

 

Clint sighs. “Sure, pal. Go ahead.” He’s too tired to toast up any more so he eats two untoasted, or as Lila would say, “raw”. Then he tries to get Thor to try some banana, but Thor is not onboard with that idea at all.

 

“Dat wooks swimy,” he says with his lip curled. So Clint takes a bite.

 

The kid’s got a point. It _is_ slimy. Clint eats it anyway.

 

When they have finished eating (including two more Pop-Tarts for the kid because it’s unseemly to leave them in the box all alone), Thor strongly suggests they take a few boxes of “pot-parts” (“No, Pop-tarts” “Pot-tarts?” “*sigh* Close enough”) back to Clint’s quarters for “wayter.” The fact that he’s accepted that there might be a “later” here is enough to get Clint to agree. Thor loads himself up with three boxes, and says “Cwint, you carry the res’.”

 

So Clint lifts Thor down from the counter, picks up three more boxes, and heads toward the door, but Thor just stands there with the boxes and bear under one arm and the other hand in the air, waiting for Clint to pick him up. _This again? Come on, kid. They’re called feet. Use them._

 

“I can’t carry you if my arms are full,” Clint points out, reasonably.

 

“Dat’s ok, Cwint, you can carry the tot-parts in one arm and me in the udder.”

 

“I can, can I?”

 

Thor just nods seriously and keeps holding his arm up in the air, so what the hell is Clint supposed to do? He shifts the boxes of Pop-tarts to his right arm and awkwardly scoops Thor up with the left. Thor blithely piles his boxes on top of Clint’s to free up his hands so he can hang on to Clint’s shoulder.

 

“See? Dat works fine.”

 

“Sure. Great. I’ve got everything. Don’t worry.”

 

Thor wraps both arms around Clint’s neck and lays his head on his shoulder with a big yawn. “I’m not worried, Cwint. I know you’ve got me,” he says sweetly.

 

_Gah!_

 

* * *

 

When they get back to Clint’s quarters, there is a big box sitting outside the door, and neatly folded on top of it is Thor’s cape. As soon as Thor sees it, he squirms down from Clint’s arms, almost causing him to fumble the boxes of Pop-tarts. 

 

“My bwanket!” he cries. He picks up the cape and wraps it around himself with a sigh of contentment. Most of it pools on the ground around his bare feet. “I fought it was wost foreber.”

 

Clint has to turn away to hide his grin. “I told you Friday would get it back quick.” He transfers the Pop-tarts to one arm to open the door, then uses his foot to nudge the big box inside.

 

“Fank you, Friday,” Thor says to the ceiling. “I don’t know how you did dat wifout a body.”

 

“You’re welcome, Thor,” Friday replies, “I have many helpers. The box is for you too.”

 

“It is?? What’s in it?” Thor darts in the door after Clint and starts pulling at the lid of the box.

 

“You’ll have to look and see.”

 

“Hang on, hang on, I’ll open it in a second,” Clint says in amusement. He puts down the Pop-tarts on the kitchen counter and pulls out his pocketknife to open the box. 

 

It turns out the box contains clothes, lots of them, all the perfect size to fit mini-Thor. There are several pairs of jeans, underpants, socks, and a pair of red Converse sneakers on top. Thor watches silently, chewing on the corner of the cape, while Clint lifts them out and sets them aside. Next is an Ironman shirt, and a Captain America hoodie. Thor doesn’t have any comment about those either, but he does run his fingers over the shield emblem on the front of the hoodie. 

 

Under the hoodie is a pair of Hawkeye pajamas in purple and black. Thor immediately grabs them with a cry of recognition. “Dis is you, right? Dese wook wike you!”

 

“Yeah, those look like my uniform.”

 

“Can I wear dem? Can I wear dem right now??”

 

“Sure, go ahead.”

 

Thor strips off Cooper’s oversized shirt and Lila’s jeans, puts on the pajama top, then sits down and pulls on the pajama bottoms backwards, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I wook wike you!”

 

“Yep, that’s right,” Clint lies, because Thor actually looks like a tiny demented Hawk-elf: hair sticking up all over and his shirt crooked and the pants backwards with one pant leg rucked up and the other hanging down past his foot. 

 

“What else is in dere?” Thor says, leaning over to peer into the box. The only thing left is what looks like a plain black shirt, but when Clint opens it up, they find that one of the sleeves is silver with a red star.

 

“Dis is wike Bucky!”

 

“Looks like it. Maybe you can wear that one tomorrow.”

 

Thor doesn’t respond to that, just brushes his hand over the red star and down the silver sleeve. Clint isn’t sure what he’s thinking, but his eyes have gone observant again. _Shit_. Clint mentally reviews what just happened, trying to figure out what could have upset him, but he can’t find anything. Maybe the kid is just tired. Nathaniel turns into a complete bear when he’s tired, so maybe Thor is the same.

 

 “All right, let’s get these clothes put away,” Clint says, patting Thor on the shoulder. He scoops up the pile of clothes and heads to the kids’ bedroom, while Thor wraps himself up again and trails after him, dragging the cape along behind him like a train. While Thor sits cross-legged and watches, Clint opens a mostly empty drawer in one of the dressers and stacks the clothes inside in messy piles. When he is done, he turns in time to catch Thor mid-yawn. 

 

“Getting sleepy, buddy?”

 

“No.” Thor rubs at his eyes with a fist covered in cape.

 

“Sure looks like it.”

 

Thor’s eyebrows knit together and his fingers pick at the damp corner of the cape where he has been chewing. “It’s probwy too wate to go all the way home tonight, right?” he says finally, without looking up.

 

Oh, that’s what that observant look was about. “Yeah, I guess so.”

 

“Can you take me home tomorrow?”

 

Clint’s throat goes tight. God, he hates lying to Thor, especially when the kid so clearly trusts him. “I—I don’t know, pal.”

 

“Is the bridge broken? My father said once a wong time ago the bridge got broken and the warriors couldn’t get home.”

 

“Um. . . sort of like that. Tony—you remember Tony from the plane—he and his friends are working on it.”

 

“All right,” Thor says quietly. Aw shit, his lip has gone wobbly. And a few minutes ago it had cleared up outside, but now the clouds are back and there is rain pattering on the windows again; not a storm exactly, just a light sprinkle.

 

“Hey, bud, it’s—it’s all right.” Clint reaches out, meaning just to brush down Thor’s staticky hair, but Thor slips into his lap, so Clint wraps his arms around him instead.  “Don’t you like it here?”

 

Thor sniffles and wipes his nose on the corner of the cape. “Eberyone is bery nice to me, but I reawwy want to see my mother.”

 

“I’m sorry, Thor.” Clint has to force the words past the lump in his throat. “I wish you could go home right now, pal, I really do. But you’re safe here. You can sleep here and we’ll try to figure things out in the morning.”

 

“Maybe Bucky will come see me in the morning.”

 

Clint thinks that’s unlikely, but he just makes a non-commital noise, because who knows what Bucky will do? The man is full of surprises. 

 

“Where am I going to sweep?”

 

“Well, you can have any of the beds in this room.”

 

“Where are _you_ going to sweep?”

 

“My bedroom is right across the hall. We can leave the doors open.”

 

“Dat’s all right, Cwint. I’ll sweep in your bed.”

 

“I don’t think that’s—“ Clint starts, but Thor squirms off his lap before he can finish the sentence, and goes into Clint’s bedroom with the bear under his arm.

 

“Dis bed is big enough for bof of us. I can sweep in here.”

 

Clint rolls his eyes. Just for tonight it’ll be fine, he thinks. Tony will probably have it figured out by morning anyway, especially if Bruce and Vision are helping him. Thor can start out in Clint’s bed watching a movie, and Clint can probably move him after he’s asleep. That’s what he and Laura did with Cooper and Lila when they were small. “All right. let’s brush your teeth first, then you can watch the rest of Aladdin while you go to sleep.”

 

“Brush my teef?”

 

“Come on in the bathroom and I’ll help you.” Clint carries Thor (at his insistence) into the bathroom and sits him on the counter while he gets out a new toothbrush and the toothpaste. “Here you go,” he says, handing him the toothbrush.

 

“What do I do wif it?” Thor asks.

 

“What, you mean you dont—you’ve never—? Shoot. All right, I’ll show you. Open your mouth.”

 

Thor looks confused, but he opens his mouth, so Clint takes the toothbrush and starts brushing his teeth. “Why you gotta do dat?” Thor asks through a mouthful of toothpaste.

 

“So you don’t get cavities,” Clint says while scrubbing the back teeth.

 

“What’s a cabity?”

 

“Never mind, you probably don’t need to worry much about that. But it will make your breath smell better. Now spit,” he says, but he’s too late. Thor has already swallowed the toothpaste and is making a face.

 

“Dat tas’ yucky.”

 

“Well, you're supposed to spit it out, not swallow it.” Clint hands him a cup of water. “Here, rinse and spit.” 

 

Thor obligingly takes a mouthful of water and spits it out all over the faucet and countertop and bear, with barely any making it into the sink. As soon as he sees the mess, his face screws up in alarm. “I’m sorry, Cwint,” he says immediately. “I’m sorry for making a mess. I’ll cwean it up.” He grabs the hand towel and starts trying to mop up the water, which mainly ends up just spreading it around worse.

 

Clint reaches out for the towel and Thor shies away, still swiping vigorously at the mess on the faucet. “Hey, it’s ok, buddy,” Clint says. “It’s fine. You’re not in trouble.”

 

“Can I ‘till sweep in your bed?”

 

“Sure you can.” Clint takes the towel and finishes wiping up the water. He dries off the bear as best he can and hands it to Thor, then picks him up and carries him into the bedroom. Thor happily hops into the middle of the bed and pulls the cape in around himself like a cocoon.

 

“Can I watch the mobie?”

 

“Sure, here you go.” Clint pulls out his Starkpad from the bedside table, finds Aladdin, and sets it up in front of Thor. He’s already mentally inventorying his pantry to decide what he’s going to snack on after the kid’s asleep. Anything but Pop-tarts, seriously. 

 

When Clint stands back up, Thor looks up at him with big, serious eyes. “I need you to way down so I can ‘nuggoh wif you,” he says.

 

“You want to. . .snuggle with me?” Clint clarifies, just in case he didn’t hear that correctly.

 

“Yes. I can’t go to sweep all by myself.”

 

Clint mentally surveys the mess in the living room and the dishes piled in the sink and the bathroom floor that he still hasn’t wiped up, but Thor is still gazing up at him expectantly and suddenly that doesn’t seem so important anymore. After all the kid’s been through lately, it won’t hurt to lay down and hold him for a while. Clint is still hungry, but maybe he can get something to eat later after the kid goes to sleep.

 

“Yeah, all right,” he says with a sigh. He toes off his shoes and settles on the bed next to Thor, who immediately snuggles in next to his shoulder. His eyes are already at half-mast.

 

“Fank you, Cwint,” Thor says, voice muffled from the corner of the cape that is in his mouth where he is just sucking on it, not chewing. Gotta get this kid a lovey, Clint thinks, because the cape is going to start to smell if he’s got it in his mouth all the time. Maybe Nathaniel’s old woobie would work.

 

His phone buzzes in his pocket, so he pulls it out carefully to avoid disturbing Thor, whose eyes are nearly shut now.

 

_Text from Bruce_

_Can I stop by and say hello to Thor?_

 

**He’s almost asleep. Maybe you can come tomorrow morning with Natasha. Steve wants to her to check if he can lift his hammer.**

 

_Ok, I’ll check with her, thanks._

 

A minute later, Thor’s eyes are closed and the blanket has fallen out of his mouth. Clint’s gotta admit his eyes are feeling droopy as well. He hasn’t slept for nearly twenty-four hours now, and he is exhausted. He should really get up and find something to eat, brush his own teeth, put on some pajamas. . . Yeah, he’ll do that in a minute. Right now the bed is comfy and Thor is snuggled up next to him like a hot water bottle, and Aladdin and Princess Jasmine are riding away on a magic carpet. . .

 

* * *

 

Clint is awakened by a solid kick to his side and a wordless scream. He forces his eyes open and finds a tiny, thrashing whirlwind in his bed, Thor enmeshed in a nightmare, flailing and shouting incoherently. Outside, a flash lights up the night sky and thunder booms. _Shit_.

 

“Thor, wake up, buddy!” Clint calls, trying to catch one of those flying arms and nearly taking a fist to the temple. 

 

“NO!” Thor screeches. “DON’T TOUCH ME! WET ME GO!”

 

“Thor! It’s ok, you’re safe!”

 

Thor sits upright and his eyes fly open, blank and staring. His chest heaves with his stuttered breathing. “Cwint?” he says in a quavering voice.

 

“Yeah, buddy, I’m here. You’re ok.”

 

“CWINT!” Thor flings himself into Clint’s lap and wraps his arms tightly around his neck. His knees dig into Clint’s thigh as he scrabbles to burrow deeper into Clint’s chest. “Cwint,” he sobs, “Cwint, the bad peopoh were fying to grab me. Don’t wet dem take me! Don’t wet dem take me.”

 

Clint smoothes down Thor’s tangled hair. “Shhh, it’s ok, I won’t let anyone hurt you. It’s all right. You’re all right.”

 

Under Clint’s gentle hands, Thor slowly quiets. His trembles fade away and his breathing evens out. Within a few seconds, he grows heavy and still against Clint’s shoulder as he falls back asleep. Clint leans back against the headboard with Thor still laying mostly on him, hair tickling Clint’s nose so that Clint can’t help but just breathe him in. That smell—what is that? Like fresh lemons. . . oh, it’s the shampoo, specifically the baby shampoo that his kids use. Now smelling it, he remembers giving Nathaniel his first home bath with that shampoo, how afterwards he picked him up and smelled his head and thought _this one is mine_. Clint hadn’t realized how much that smell would make Thor seem like _his._  

 

Like the god of thunder somehow _belongs_ to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, that baby shampoo smell thing is REAL. I remember giving my second baby a bath with our baby shampoo, and then smelling her head and thinking "Oh, yeah, this one is mine."


	9. Cooters and Fucks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Widdle Four's true personality comes out. Clint is tired. So so tired.

Clint wakes up covered in sweat. Why is it so goddamn hot? Either someone turned the heater up, or the tower is on fire. There is an unfamiliar weight pressed against his side. Is the dog in his bed? No, the dog is at the farm with his family where it belongs.

 

He pries one eye open and discovers it is still mostly dark out, so it must be very early. In the dim light from the window he makes out the shape of a shaggy head on his chest, the source of the heat, little Thor wrapped around him, knees digging into Clint’s bladder. Ah, damn, he needs to piss, and that really isn’t helping.

 

Clint decides to try to slide out from under the kid without waking him. First he carefully disengages the small arm wrapped around his chest, then he slowly scooches to the side, slipping his hand under Thor’s head to ease it down onto the mattress. Almost got it. . . Almost. . . And he’s awake. _Dammit_.

 

“Good morning, Cwint,” Thor’s little voice pipes, far too awake for zero-dark-thirty whatever-the-hell-time it is. 

 

“I don’t think it’s quite morning yet, Thor. You can go back to sleep.”

 

Thor sits up and pulls the cape in around his shoulders, hugging the Bucky Bear under one arm. “I’m not sweepy anymore. Do you fink Tony fixed the bridge yet? Is it time to go home?”

 

“Uh. . . no, I don’t think he’s done. He didn’t contact me yet.”

 

Clint is expecting more tears, but Thor just says “Ok. Can we have some more of dose top-tarps? I wike dose.”

 

Clint rubs at his eyes. So much for his hope of getting a few more minutes of sleep or even a quiet moment to himself this morning. “I was thinking of something a little healthier, like eggs and fruit.”

 

“Eggs?” Thor pulls a face. “I don’t wike dose. I reawwy wike pop-parts. We can have more of dose. We brought some back from the kitchen, bemember?”

 

“How about two Pop-tarts and some fruit?”

 

“Well, dere are eight pot-tarps in the box,” Thor says, obviously thinking hard. “Dat makes. . . four for you and four for me.”

 

“Not sure I want four Pop-tarts for breakfast, Thor.”

 

Thor’s face brightens. “Dat’s ok, I can eat the udder ones. Come on, Cwint!” He scoots to the side of the bed and slides down to the floor. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he runs around to Clint’s side of the bed and starts pulling on his hand. “Come on, wet’s eat tot-tarts.”

 

_Groan_. 

 

“Ok, ok, I’m coming.” He climbs out of bed and stumbles after Thor to the kitchen, where Thor raises his arms to be picked up, so Clint lifts him up automatically and sets him on the counter. He’s still moving on autopilot as he toasts up the Pop-tarts, and before he knows it, Thor has eaten all eight of them, and his face and hands and the counter and his shirt and cape and the bear are covered in crumbs and red goo. Clint just blinks at him, because how did he manage to make such a huge mess so fast? 

 

Shaking his head, he gets a washcloth wet and wipes up the stickiness as best he can while Thor squirms. “Ok, how about some fruit?”

 

“No fank you,” Thor says. While Clint is still rinsing out the washcloth, he stands up and leaps off the counter. Shit! Clint reaches out to try to catch him and misses, but it doesn’t matter anyway because Thor lands on his feet, apparently completely unharmed. “What are we going to do now?” he asks.

 

““I thought I’d eat some breakfast,” Clint says, “since you ate all the Pop-tarts.”

 

“We could open anoder box,” Thor says hopefully.

 

“No, I think one is enough. I’m going to eat something different. And then after breakfast some people are coming over.”

 

“Is it Bucky?!” 

 

“No, not Bucky.” 

 

The hopeful expression disappears and Thor immediately goes observant again. “Who is coming den?”

 

“Well, Natasha—remember her from the plane?”

 

“Yes. She’s nice. She took off the shacko.”

 

“Yes, that’s right. She’s very. . . um. Nice. Right. And Bruce might come with her.”

 

“Who is Bruce? Was he on the pwane?”

 

“No, he wasn’t. He’s a scientist and he works with Tony. He’s very smart. Natasha and Bruce want to meet you and check on something.”

 

“Do I hafta take my cwothes off?” Thor asks, clutching the cape around himself anxiously.

 

“Nope, it’s not a physical exam. They just want you to try something.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“It’s not a big deal. Hey, how about if I show you my kids’ toys? You can play with those while I get some coffee.” _Oh god, coffee. Yes, must have coffee._

 

“What toys?”

 

“Here, I’ll show you.” Clint leads the way to the kids’ room and starts pulling toys out of the toy box while Thor watches, perplexed, nose buried in the soft fur on the top of the bear’s head.

 

“What’s all dat ‘tuff?”

 

“Toys. You can play with them.”

 

Thor’s perplexed expression doesn’t clear. If anything, he looks more confused, but he does come over and pick up a scooter from the pile.

 

“What’s dis?”

 

“That’s a scooter.”

 

“A ‘cooter?”

 

“Uh, no, buddy. A sssscooter.”

 

“Dat’s what I said. Is it for faining?”

 

Clint squints at him. “Um. . .faining?”

 

“No, I said _faining_. Wike to get better at fighting or somefing.”

 

“Oh, training! No, it’s to ride on.”

 

Thor turns the scooter over and spins one of the wheels. “Why?” he asks, head cocked. Has this kid never heard of _play_??

 

“For fun. Here, try it. I’ll show you.” Clint takes the scooter, puts his foot on the deck, and pushes off gently so he glides to the other side of the bedroom. “See, like that,” he says, handing it back to Thor, who is looking scandalized.

 

“I can ride it in the house?!” Thor holds the scooter out at arm’s length as if he might get in trouble just for touching it.

 

“Well, yeah. My kids do it all the time. Plenty of room to ride here. Go ahead, try it.”

 

Still eyeing the scooter warily, Thor sets it down on the ground and rides it across the room, where he crashes headlong into the dresser. _Oops, probably should have made him wear a helmet_ , Clint thinks, but Thor immediately pops back up with a huge grin.

 

“Dat was fun!” he cries. “Can I do dat again?!”

 

“Sure, anytime you want. And here’s some more toys.”

 

Clutching the scooter as if he’s afraid Clint will snatch it out of his hand, Thor picks up a semi-truck with a lightning bolt painted on the side. “What’s dis one?” he asks wide-eyed.

 

“That’s a truck.”

 

“A fuck?”

 

Clint gulps. “What?! No! A _truck_.”

 

“Dat’s what I said.”

 

“Not quite. Listen. _Trrrruck_.”

 

Thor’s eyebrows furrow. “Frrrrrr-fuck,” he says.

 

“Um. . . sure, whatever. I guess that’s closer.”

 

Thor traces the lightning bolt with his finger, an expression of pure wonder and delight on his little face. “What’s it for?”

 

“To play with. Like this.” Clint takes the truck and pulls it back. When he lets go, it zooms across the floor making a motor noise. “See?” 

 

Thor is practically jumping up and down with excitement. “Can I do it?? Can I? Pwease!!”

 

Clint can’t help but grin to see the kid excited about something. That’s more like the way he thought Thor must have been as a child. “Sure, pal. Go ahead.”

 

Thor grabs the truck and pushes it hard, and it rolls out into the hall. He hops on the scooter and rides after it, cape trailing behind him, and pushes it again, all the way down the hall into the living room. “Dis is fun! I can do dis in the house here!” he cries, racing down the hall to grab the truck again.

 

“Great. Knock yourself out, kid. I’m going to eat breakfast.”

 

Thor doesn’t even answer; he’s too busy pushing the truck and chasing after it on the scooter, all over the living room, an ear-to-ear smile plastered across his face. Well, that’s all it takes to make him happy? Ok, fucks and cooters all around then.

 

* * *

 

 

Half of the furniture has new dings in them by the time Clint’s coffee is ready. He is just sitting down to drink it when his phone buzzes.

 

_Text from Nat_

_I know it’s early but Bruce and I are available to come down anytime. Just let me know when you’re ready. No hurry._

 

What the hell time is it anyway? Outside the kitchen window, the sky is just starting to lighten up. The clock on Clint’s phone says proudly 5:53 am. Goddamn, what time did they wake up this morning? And how does Thor have so much energy this early in the morning??

 

**Now is fine** , Clint texts back. 

 

_Are you sure? We don’t have to come right away. You can take your time with breakfast._

 

As he is reading this, he hears a crash coming from the living room, and then suddenly it’s raining again. Shit.

 

**Come now before this kid destroys my apartment** , he texts on the way to the living room, where he finds Thor sitting on the floor holding the remains of the world’s ugliest ceramic cat that Lila made in first grade. The head has been snapped off and one of the paws is missing, but it honestly doesn’t look any worse than it usually does.

 

“Hey, you ok?” Clint says calmly. Thor scrambles to his feet and backs away, looking frightened. Outside, the rain intensifies and thunder rumbles in the distance. “Thor? Are you hurt?”

 

Thor’s head jerks back and forth. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, holding out the pieces of the cat. When Clint reaches for them, Thor shies away as if expecting a blow.

 

“It’s ok,” Clint reassures him, although mentally the gears are turning. This is a kid who expects to be punished severely for a careless mistake, and Clint has a pretty good idea who is usually doling out the punishment. “I’m not mad. You’re not in trouble.”

 

“It was an accident,” Thor says in a quavering voice, “I’m sorry.”

 

“Really, it’s fine. I can glue it back together. I promise you’re not in trouble.” Clint sets the pieces of the cat aside, thinking he’ll just throw it away later when Thor isn’t looking. Lila has been begging him to get rid of it for years anyway because she finds it so embarrassing, which is the exact reason he has kept it around for so long. “Bruce and Natasha are on their way over. Do you want to get dressed?”

 

Thor looks down at himself with a frown. “I am dressed,” he says, examining the Hawkeye pajamas. “Dese are cwothes.”

 

“Well, they’re more like—“

 

“I wike dese cwothes. I want to wook wike you, Cwint.”

 

_Shit, kid, you know exactly what to say, don’t you?_ Clint cocks a half-grin at him and shrugs. “Ok, that’s fine I guess. Should we brush your hair and teeth?”

 

“We did dat already, bemember? We did dat yes’erday.”

 

Clint snorts. “Ok, fine, yes. We did it yesterday so I guess you’re good to go then.”

 

Thor straightens up to his full height (currently only a little over three feet tall) and says in his _Being Brave_ voice, “Yes, Cwint, I’m ready to fy somefing, eben dough I don’t know what it is.”

 

* * *

 

Clint is finishing brushing his own teeth when there is a knock at the door. Thor, who had been playing noisily in the living room with the trucks, suddenly goes silent, then Clint hears the sound of his little feet pounding down the hall toward the bathroom. He opens the door just in time for Thor to throw himself against his legs.

 

“That’s just Nat and Bruce, buddy,” Clint soothes, patting his back. “Nothing to worry about.” He starts trying to walk to the living room, but Thor won’t let go of his legs so it’s slow going. When he opens the door, Thor ducks behind him, fingers clutching tight to his pant leg. Natasha looks as perfectly pulled together as always even though she’s wearing workout clothes, and Bruce looks rumpled as usual. Does that guy ever _not_ look like he just rolled out of bed?

 

“Hey, guys,” Clint says breezily. He can hear the wind rattling the windows, so he reaches back and lays his hand on Thor’s head to try to calm him down. “Thor, you remember Nat, right?”

 

“Yes,” Thor says. His voice is muffled, and when Clint looks back, he sees the corner of the cape is stuffed in his mouth again. “Hewwo, Wady Natasha.”

 

“Hello, Thor. I like those pajamas.”

 

“Fank you,” Thor says in a very serious voice, “I wike dem too.”

 

“And this is Bruce.”

 

Thor doesn’t say anything as he edges back further behind Clint’s leg. Bruce crouches down to Thor’s level with his elbows on his knees and his hands hanging down loosely in front of him in a carefully non-threatening posture.

 

“Hello, Thor,” Bruce says softly, “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

 

Thor still doesn’t say anything, just hides behind Clint’s pant leg and watches Bruce with wide, somber eyes. Bruce is smiling, but he’s chewing the inside of his cheek, eyes scrunched up as if he’s in pain. 

 

After an awkward moment, Thor pipes up, “Did you fix the bridge yet?”

 

“Um. . .” Bruce looks to Clint for clarification.

 

“I, uh. I told him you were working on getting him home.”

 

“Oh. We are working hard on it, but we haven’t got it figured out yet. We will keep trying.”

 

“Cwint says you’re bery ‘mart.”

 

Bruce chuckles. “Well, that’s very kind of him. Do you like hanging out with Clint?”

 

“Yes. He wet me ride the ‘cooter in the house.”

 

Again, Bruce looks up at Clint for clarification, so Clint says, “scooter.”

 

“Ah, the ssscooter. That does sound like fun. Watch this, Thor.” Bruce puts his finger at his shoulder and runs it down his arm while saying, “Sssss-“ then taps his hand, “-cooter. Sssss-cooter. You try it.”

 

Thor lets go of Clint’s pant leg long enough to run his finger down his arm in imitation of Bruce. “Sssss-cooter.”

 

“Yeah, that’s right! Good job.”

 

Thor’s serious expression turns into a big grin. “I did a good job, Cwint!”

 

“Yes, you did. Maybe he can help us with this one,” Clint says with a smirk, picking up the lightning-bolt truck. “What’s this, Thor?”

 

“A fuck!”

 

Nat puts her hand over her mouth and turns away. Bruce’s eyebrows fly up. “Oh! Um. Like this. Watch my mouth. Trrrrruck.”

 

“Frrrr-fuck. Yeah! Dat’s what I said. I can push it all ober. Except I broked a cat.”

 

“Statue of a cat,” Clint clarifies, because both Bruce and Nat are looking confused.

 

“Yes, a ‘tatue. But Cwint didn’t get mad.” Thor has almost entirely stepped out from behind Clint’s leg now.

 

“Well, that’s good then,” Bruce says, looking at mini-Thor with a pleased little smile, like he’s some sort of rare bird he discovered.

 

“Thor, are you ready to go an little field trip?” Nat asks.

 

“What’s a field fip?”

 

“We just need to check on something.”

 

“Are we going to check if the bridge works?”

 

The adults all exchange glances. Bruce’s smile doesn’t fade, but his eyes scrunch up like he’s in pain again. 

 

“No,” Nat says kindly. “We’re not ready to do that yet, I’m sorry. This is for something else. Will you come with us?” She holds out her hand, and Thor immediately takes a step back and grabs a fistful of Clint’s pant leg. 

 

“Can Cwint come wif us?” he says, hugging his bear tightly in one arm while clinging to Clint's leg with the other.

 

“Sure I can,” Clint says, scooping Thor up into his arms where he clings to his shirt like a baby monkey. He’s not going to carry the kid every time, honest. He’s gotta walk on his own sometime, but right now, Clint can’t stand those anxious eyes. If being carried will help just this once, then he can do it.

 

Thor’s grip never loosens on Clint’s shirt, all the way down the hall, and in the elevator to the basement, and down the corridor to the closet where Vision stashed/hid “Ultimate Mjolnir” (because grown-up Thor is a serious drama queen). Goddamn, the kid keeps getting heavier and heavier the farther they walk, but when Clint tries to set him on the handrail in the elevator, he just hangs on tighter with his knees and silently refuses to be put down, so what the hell is Clint supposed to do?

 

_Ultimate Mjolnir_ (in Clint’s mind those words are in a fancy font, like Questra or some shit like that) is ensconced in a carved oak box with a fucking silk lining, covered with a velvet cloth almost like it’s tucked into bed. Clint isn’t sure if that’s Vision’s work, or if Thor had this already set up to store the thing in. Clint notices that Bruce is carefully watching Thor’s face when he opens the box, but Thor just gazes at it with mild interest, without any sign of recognition. 

 

“What is dat?” Thor asks from Clint’s arms, around the corner of the cape which is still stuffed in his mouth.

 

“It’s a. . . hammer.” Nat says.

 

“It doesn’t wook wike a hammer.”

 

Clint thinks the kid’s got a point. Old Ultie’s got a hammerhead on one side, but the other side is definitely an ax, no matter what grown-up Thor claims. And the way Thor usually swings that thing around is fucking dangerous. They’ve all learned to duck quick when he goes into action. Tony’s armor has gotten more than one ding in it from that wicked sharp blade. Aaaand they are about to put it in the hands of a toddler. This is seeming more and more like a Very Bad Idea. 

 

“Well, it’s sort of like a hammer,” Bruce says with a shrug. “Do you think you can lift it?”

 

“I can fy to wift it. Can you hand it to me?” Thor shifts the Bucky Bear to one arm and reaches out his hand expectantly, as if Bruce will pick it up and give it to him.

 

“Um. No, you’ll have to get down and lift if yourself.”

 

The tiny fingers tighten on Clint’s collar. “Ok, ok, I’ll get down there with you, all right?” Clint says. Thor nods but his grip doesn’t loosen, so Clint crouches down and sets Thor’s feet on the floor but keeps his arms around him loosely for reassurance. “Go ahead, see if you can pick it up.”

 

Thor solemnly hands the bear to Natasha, who takes it with an equally solemn nod. One hand still holding the corner of the cape in his mouth, Thor reaches out and wraps his tiny fingers around the handle of hammer as far as they will go, which is only about half-way.

 

“It’s buzzing!” he exclaims.

 

“It is?” Clint leans in but can’t hear anything. “Do you mind if I touch it?”

 

“Why would I mind about dat?” Thor says, nose scrunched up in confusion. “It’s not mine.”

 

_Keep your mouth shut keep your mouth shut,_ Clint reminds himself. “Uh. Ok.” Clint lays his fingertips on the side of the handle and discovers he can indeed feel it buzzing just slightly. It feels weird to be touching Mjolnir. Clint has only touched it (her?) once before, and that was at grown-up Thor’s invitation (and it wasn’t buzzing that time). Touching it now seems like a violation, like he’s taking unfair advantage of Thor’s vulnerable state. He quickly pulls his hand away and rubs it on his pant leg.

 

Thor is looking at him for reassurance, so Clint says, “Go ahead, see if you can pick it up.”

 

The kid pulls one-handed, and the hammer wobbles a little but stays down. Clint hears Bruce’s quick intake of breath from behind him. Thor drops the corner of the cape and uses both hands. This time it moves almost an inch but doesn’t lift up.

 

“It’s too heaby,” he says, looking at Clint, “you do it.”

 

Clint chuckles. “No, I can’t lift it either.” He’s not sure whether he’s disappointed or relieved. On the one hand, Mjolnir belongs to Thor; it’s almost a part of him. It seems cruel to keep them apart. But on the other hand, putting a weapon as powerful as _Ultimate Mjolnir_ in the hands of a little kid who has zero control over his emotions would be a huge mistake, as far as Clint is concerned. Clint doesn’t even let Cooper and Lila handle weapons without supervision, and Nathaniel is still using a toy bow with rubber-tipped arrows. Clint has seen the destruction this kid can bring down with just a scooter—how quickly could he lay waste to Clint’s apartment, or even the whole building, with a fucking AX-HAMMER OF DOOM?

 

When Clint scoops Thor back up and stands up, he sees a brief flicker of disappointment on Bruce’s face, before it’s replaced with a pasted-on smile. Natasha looks as implacable as ever, of course. Clint’s going to have to text her later to find out what she thinks, because she’s not wearing it all over her face like Bruce is.

 

“Can you wift dat hammer, wady Natasha?” Thor asks.

 

“Nope,” Natasha says, popping the ‘p’. She hands Thor back his Bucky Bear, which he tucks under on arm.

 

“I can’t wift it, and Cwint can’t wift it eider. Can ‘Teve wift it?”

 

“Nope. Nobody can.”

 

Thor’s brow furrows. Clearly he’s got more questions, but all he says is, “oh.”

 

“Ready to go?” Clint says.

 

“Yes. I can pway wif the ‘cooter and fucks some more.”

 

Clint pauses with his hand on the doorknob. It’s only about seven in the morning. How many more hours are there until bedtime? Far too many for a little boy to be cooped up in his apartment. At the rate the kid was going, there won’t be much apartment left by the time he falls asleep tonight. Maybe if they go to the gym, he can bribe someone else to play with him for a while and Clint can go take a nap.

 

“How about if we go to the gym instead?”

 

“The gym?”

 

“Yeah, it’s fun. Lots of room to play. We can stop by and get the scooter on the way.”

 

“Ok, Cwint. I want to go whereber you go.”

 

_D’aww. So sweet. So much for the nap._

 

* * *

 

Thor LOVES the gym. Clint thinks he’s going to explode with excitement when he sees all the equipment to climb and jump on, and jump FROM and scare Clint half to death. He wants to start climbing right away, but Clint makes him take off the cape first because it really seems like a strangulation hazard the way he has it wrapped around his neck.

 

Sam is there lifting weights, but when he sees Thor leaping from the bars like Tarzan he comes over and joins them. It doesn’t take too long until Thor is happily bouncing with Sam on the trampoline (“Fampowine?” “Trampoline.” “Dat’s what I said.” “Ok, whatever, big guy.”).

 

Just for the heck of it, Clint demonstrates how to do a kip on the uneven bars, and Thor just up and _does it_ , swings his body up over the bar like it ain’t no thang. Cooper tried for _seven years_ to learn how to do a kip and never mastered it, and this kid gets it on his first try. And he does it with a big grin on his face, like it’s the funnest thing he’s ever done.

 

“I WIKE dis faining!” Thor calls from the high bar, where he has pulled himself up to a handstand after the first demonstration. Clint nearly has a heart attack when he throws himself bodily off the bar, tucks and rolls at the last moment, and bounces back up to his feet. “Maybe Bucky will come down and pway wif us,” he says with such a hopeful expression lighting up his face that Clint can’t help but say, “Maybe,” and then he realizes that was stupid because Bucky never shows up to the gym when other people are there. Clint came down once after midnight and found Bucky running on the treadmill like a bat outta hell _in the dark_. The second Clint came in the door, Bucky stopped the treadmill and left without a word, not even a nod of acknowledgment. So the chances of him coming on down to enjoy the gym with the gang like _people_ is pretty much zilch.

 

“Hurray!” Thor shouts. “Sam! Bucky is going to come down and pway wif us!”

 

“He is, huh?” Sam says drily, fixing Clint with a look.

 

“I didn’t say for sure. . .” Clint trails off lamely, because Thor is now jumping up and down on the trampoline, shouting “Bucky is coming! Bucky is coming!” _Shit_.

 

Even though he knows it’s pointless, Clint feels compelled to pick up his phone and text Bucky. Hell, he answered last time, so maybe he will again. And maybe wild horses will come flying outta his butt. Both outcomes seem equally unlikely.

 

**I’m showing Thor the gym. Come on down and join us,** he texts into the void. And then he tosses his phone down on a bench and goes back to the bars, not even bothering to wait for a response because he already knows there won’t be one. If Thor thinks _Bucky Barnes_ is gonna come _play_ with him, then he’ll just have to learn to live with disappointment because that ain’t happening.

 

A few minutes later, Clint nearly shits his pants when the door opens and Bucky Fucking Barnes strolls in like he’s a normal human being who hangs out in the gym with the team, which _he’s not_.

 

Thor spots him immediately. “Bucky!” he cries, somersaulting off the trampoline and sprinting toward the door. His mad dash slows to a halt, however, when Steve walks in on Bucky’s heels. Thor changes course halfway across the gym and heads for Clint instead, where he hides behind Clint’s leg and watches the pair of them with an anxious, observant expression. Clint’s not sure what to do here, because clearly Steve’s presence is making Thor uncomfortable for some reason, but Clint’s not about to tell him to leave, especially since Steve’s eyes have that haunted edge to them again, and if Steve leaves, Bucky is likely to leave too, which will lead to a very unhappy boy and probably some weather they will all regret.

 

“Hey, Bucky,” Clint calls, waving them over. “Glad you could join us.” _Did that sound sarcastic?_ He’s really trying hard not to sound sarcastic.

 

Bucky basically ignores Clint to instead focus on Thor, who is standing halfway behind Clint’s leg. “Hi, pal,” he says with a shadow of a smile.

 

“Hewwo, Bucky.”

 

“You like the gym?” Bucky says.

 

Thor’s worried eyes flick to Steve, who is standing behind Bucky looking anxious and uncomfortable, just like Thor is standing behind Clint. “Yes, I wike it.”

 

“What have you tried so far?” _Hot damn, Bucky Barnes is having a full-on conversation, Ladies and Gentlemen._

 

Thor, still watching Steve, swallows hard and whispers, “. . . the fampowine.”

 

“Trampoline?”

 

“Yes,” Thor says, then blurts out, “I’ve been wistening to Cwint and Sam.” Thor’s words seem like a non sequitur at first, but Clint suddenly realizes that even though he’s talking to Bucky, he’s really trying to convince _Steve_ that he’s being _good_. There’s a tortured path to the kid’s logic, and it goes like this: Steve is the authority figure— >Authority figures hand out punishment, sometimes harshly—>Thor is afraid of punishment—>Thor is afraid of Steve. Yeah, this might be a problem.

 

“Sounds like fun, kiddo.” Bucky says, eyes narrowing. He follows Thor’s gaze to Steve, then looks back and forth between the two of them like he’s putting the pieces together. Clint, who has already completed the whole goddamn puzzle, really wants to ask Steve to skedaddle, but he doesn't want to scare Bucky away, so. . .

 

Imagine Clint’s surprise when Bucky jerks his head at Steve and mouths “scram.” Steve blinks but doesn’t move, so Bucky does it again, and this time Steve nods.

 

“I’m gonna. . . go use the weights, Buck,” Steve says awkwardly. “Let me know if, um. . . if you need anything.”

 

“Ok, no problem, Stevie,” Bucky says in an overly-casual voice. They all just stand there watching while Steve walks over to the weights and starts getting set up. Then Bucky turns back to Thor. “Wanna jump on the trampoline with me?”

 

“Yes, Bucky!” Thor exclaims, lighting up like he won the goddamned lottery, “wet’s go!” He takes off toward the trampoline at a run. Bucky chuckles ( _chuckles! He can laugh!_ ), shakes his head, and runs after him. Clint folds his arms and watches the two of them jump up and down with their hair flying. It’s only a few minutes before Sam joins them, and within five minutes after that, Thor has convinced them to throw him back and forth between them, laughing with this kind of pure joy that reminds Clint painfully of how Thor _used_ to be, before his life went to hell.

 

Steve has stopped pretending to lift weights and is watching them with a sad expression, so maybe he’s thinking the same. Clint knows Steve has missed the old Thor too. And now here he is back again, in miniature, and it _hurts_ to know it’s not going to last.

 

Clint wanders over to the weights where he picks up a set of dumbbells and starts doing tricep extensions. He wants to talk to Steve, _really_ talk to him, about shit that _matters_ , but Steve’s eyes are like walls, locking all the sads in and everyone else out.

 

“He seems happy,” Steve says wistfully, eyes still on Thor.

 

“Sort of. Keeps asking me when he’s going home.”

 

“Tony and Bruce are working on it.”

 

“I’m getting sick of lying to him, Steve. It’s kind of breaking my heart.”

 

“It shouldn’t be much longer.” Steve puts one set of weights back and picks up a heavier set. He’s not making eye contact, which makes Clint think he knows something he’s not saying.

 

“How much longer are we going to wait?”

 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” 

 

_Goddammit, stop avoiding the question_. “Steve—“ Clint starts, thinking to press the issue, but he’s interrupted by Thor’s little voice calling from across the room.

 

“Cwint! CWINT! Watch DIS!” 

 

Clint refocuses on the group on the trampoline to find Sam jumping nearly six feet in the air with Thor standing on his shoulders. _Oh god, what the hell are they doing and how much blood am I going to have to clean up?_ Thor waves to him, then uses Sam as a launchpad to flip himself through the air and land neatly in Bucky’s arms. “DID YOU SEE DAT?! I did a FWIP!” he shouts.

 

“Yep, I saw it.” Stupid kid’s got a death wish. Clint woulda expected that sort of thing from Bucky, but Sam’s supposed to have more sense.

 

“I need to show dat to my father!” Thor says to Bucky, then raises his voice and shouts to Clint, “CWINT! Can we show dat to my father when you take me home?!”

 

“Uh, ok, buddy,” Clint calls back. He raises his eyebrows at Steve, who quickly turns back to the weights with renewed attention. He can’t push this off forever. The kid’s gonna get his heart broken eventually; the only question is if it’s gonna happen sooner, or later.

 

* * *

 

It’s almost three hours before Thor is ready to leave the gym, by which time all the rest of the team members have thrown in the towel and headed off to rest. Clint can barely move his muscles are so sore from jumping and throwing Thor (who must weighs over a hundred pounds, right?) all over the gym.

 

As he is carrying Thor (yeah, gotta stop doing that. Maybe next time) back to his quarters, the kid says, “Why is ‘Teve mad at me?”

 

“Um. He’s not mad.”

 

Thor frowns in thought. “Are his _eyes_ mad?”

 

Hmm. . . how to explain Steve’s complicated tangle of emotions to a preschooler when he doesn’t even really understand it himself? Clint doesn’t even think Steve really understands his own feelings, and he won’t talk about them, so how’s he supposed to get them sorted out? The kid is watching him anxiously, so finally Clint settles on, “No, he’s just sad.”

 

Of course Thor can’t just leave it there. “Why is he sad?”

 

“Because. . . he lost someone he cares about.”

 

“Who?”

 

_You. It’s you, pal. Nope, can’t say that._ “A good friend. But we hope we’ll find him again soon. Hey, how about some lunch.”

 

“Yeah! Wet’s have peamut bummer jewwy!”

 

Great. Communal kitchen it is. Maybe afterward the kid will take a nap. Maybe pigs will fly.

 

* * *

 

Clint is half asleep on his easy chair (Noise? What noise? He’s learned how to sleep through anything) when his phone buzzes with a text.

 

_Group Text from Tony_

_Team dinner tonight in communal dining room. 8 pm. Bring Widdle Four._

 

Team dinner? That sounds like a lot of work. And 8 pm is bedtime, right? Laura always says “Bedtime!” at exactly 7:55 every night, and all the children scurry to brush their teeth, so Clint is pretty sure kids are supposed to be in bed at 8. Before Clint can decide what he wants to say, his phone starts buzzing with responses.

 

_Sam: I’ll be there._

 

_Bruce: Yes, see you then._

 

_Bucky: Dont call him that Tony._

 

_!!!_

 

_Tony: BUCKY BARNES HAS RESPONDED TO A GROUP TEXT._

 

_Steve: Knock it off, Tony._

 

_Nat: Two centenarians and a preschooler. Maybe we should make it earlier?_

 

_Tony: Good idea. What about 7??_

 

_Wanda: 7 is good. I’ll come._

 

_Steve: Clint, is Thor up for it?_

 

Clint looks over at Thor, who is holding a truck in each hand, wearing Lila’s quilt tied around his neck like a cape while he leaps from the coffee table into a pile of couch cushions, scream-singing “YOU AIN’T NEBER HAD A FRIEND WIKE ME!” at the top of his lungs. How many more hours of this until dinnertime? They’ll probably both be dead by seven o’clock at this rate. Or at least Clint will, and Baby-Thor will be jumping up and down on his corpse.

 

**I think he can handle it. We’ll see you at 7.**

 

_Tony: Great. Old people and toddlers. Let me know if anyone needs their food pre-chewed._

 

_Steve: Still got all my own teeth, Tony. See you then._

 

Clint stares at his phone for a few more minutes, waiting to see if Bucky will respond again that he’s coming, but there’s nothing. Finally he sets down the phone and says, “Hey, Thor?”

 

Thor swims his way to the top of the pile of cushions. His hair is sticking out in all directions from static cling and his cheeks are flushed from exertion. “Yes, Cwint?”

 

“We got an invitation to dinner.”

 

“Where?”

 

“In the dining room with the team.”

 

Thor freezes. His eyes go observant again. He sticks the corner of the quilt in his mouth and chews on it anxiously. “Will Bucky be dere?”

 

“Um. . . not sure. I think so.” _He’d better be,_ Clint thinks. Sometimes Bucky skips team dinners, especially when he’s had enough of Tony. Ok, most of the time Bucky skips team dinners.

 

“Bucky is coming! Yay!” Thor cries as he clambers back up onto the coffee table so he can jump into the pillows again.

 

Shit. Somehow Clint has accidentally promised the kid that Bucky is coming, which is a promise he doubts he can keep. Chewing on his lip, he texts just Tony.

 

**Is Bucky coming tonight?**

 

_How the hell should I know? Today is the first time he’s ever responded to any of my texts. And half the time he doesn’t show up to team dinners either, even thought I always set a place for him._  

 

Clint decides to try texting Bucky. Hey, it worked last time. Hope springs eternal, right?

 

I **f you don’t show up to dinner, you’ll be breaking a little boy’s heart.**

 

Then he sits and stares dumbly at his phone, but there’s no response, of course. Clint hears Thor singing again as he leaps into the pillows, but the words have changed: “You ain’t neber had a friend wike BUCKY!” 

 

_Groan_.


	10. Paketti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four doesn't wike 'paketti

Clint decides Thor can’t wear filthy Hawkeye pajamas to dinner. Thor doesn’t understand why not.

 

“Because they have Pop-tarts and jam all over them, buddy.”

 

“I wike dese cwothes. I wook wike you.”

 

“You can’t wear pajamas to dinner. Pajamas are for sleeping,” Clint says reasonably. “You’re not going to sleep at dinner, are you?”

 

Thor frowns. “No, I don’t want to sweep. I want to go to the gym again and jump on the fampowine.”

 

“Well, maybe we can do that tomorrow. it’s almost time for dinner, so we have to get ready.”

 

“Tomorrow I’m going home, right? Did Tony and Bruce fix the bridge?”

 

_Shit, didn’t mean to bring that up. Deflect! Deflect!_ “I don’t know, Thor. Hey, how about your Bucky shirt? Why don’t you wear that one?”

 

Thor’s face lights up. “Yeah! I can wook wike Bucky!” He sprints down the hall and comes back trying to pull on the black shirt over his pajamas.

 

“No, kiddo, you have to take off the pajamas first.”

 

Thor’s head pops out the neck hole of the shirt. “Why? I want to wear bof of dem.”

 

Clint closes his eyes and just tries to breathe for a minute. Ok, who cares if he’s wearing a jam-smeared pajama top underneath his shirt? Thor wears all kinds of crazy stuff all the time when he’s not in his uniform. It’s not uncommon for him to show up to dinner wearing just swim trunks and flip flops, and no one says a word. Once he even wore a flowered skirt to a press conference. No idea how he found one in his size, but none of them dared question him on it. So it’s not a reflection on Clint if he picks his own clothes and they look a bit. . . weird. 

 

“Ok, tell you what—you can wear both shirts if you change into these jeans.”

 

“I can put on the jeans on top of dese pants.” Thor sits down and starts pulling on the jeans over the top of the pajamas.

 

_Breathe. Just breathe._ “Ok, fine. Yeah. Why not.”

 

The pajama bottoms are all bunched up under the jeans, making lumps in the legs. Thor can’t get them buttoned, so he pulls up his shirt and steps up in an obvious sign that he expects Clint to take care of it, and _how did it come to this??_

 

As soon as the jeans are buttoned, Thor wraps the cape around himself and picks up his Bucky bear. “Can we sit next to Bucky at dinner?” he asks with a little anxious edge to his high-pitched voice.

 

“Uh. . . sure.” _If he’s there_ , Clint thinks grimly. _Please be there please be there unless you want us all to drown in a rainstorm._ “Now let’s brush your teeth and hair.”

 

“We already did dat.”

 

Clint grits his teeth and blows air out through his nose in exasperation. “We need to do it every day.”

 

“Why?”

 

_So you don’t look like a crazy person._ “So you look nice for dinner.”

 

“I don’t care what my hair wooks wike.”

 

“But the rest of us have to look at you. Come on, we’re doing it.” He scoops Thor up, cape and all, and carries him into the bathroom where he sets him on the counter. “Open up.”

 

Thor opens his mouth to protest, so Clint sticks a toothbrush in and brushes his teeth. When he pulls the toothbrush out, Thor says through a mouthful of toothpaste, “I don’t want to brush my teef.”

 

“Ok, that’s fine cuz I’m done. Spit this time.”

 

Thor spits mostly in the sink and wipes his mouth on the cape. Clint sighs. “Great. Now hold still so I can put some stuff in your hair.” He gets out the detangler and works some through the messy waves until it is mostly tangle-free, then roots around in the cupboard until he finds the shaping gel that Cooper has been using far too much of lately.

 

While Clint is pouring a little puddle of gel into his hand, Thor says, “Can I eat peamut bummer jewwy tonight?”

 

“I don’t think they’ll have that, buddy.” Clint rubs his hands together and starts distributing the gel through Thor’s hair, working it into the waves to try to get them to lay somewhat evenly, which is hard work. Clint wouldn’t exactly call himself an expert at hair. Cooper’s hair never did anything except lay perfectly straight no matter what, so they mostly left it alone until he started doing it himself. Laura takes care of Lila’s long hair. And Nathaniel’s curls have been kept at bay with crew cuts since he was a year old, so Clint never learned what to do with kids’ hair.

 

Thor’s eyes go anxious. “Den what will I eat?”

 

“Whatever they’re serving, I guess.” Damn, those waves are stubborn. A curl on the left side insists on popping straight out, so Clint applies more gel and slicks it down, then tries to fluff it again when it ends up plastered to his head. 

 

“But what if I don’t wike it?”

 

“I’m sure you’ll manage.” Clint pushes his fingers through the waves one last time and steps back to examine his work, which has turned out rather better than he expected: a perfect golden surfer shag. It’s really unfair how adorable this kid is.

 

“Ok, looks good. Let’s put your shoes on.” Clint grabs the red Converse sneakers and wrangles them onto Thor’s feet, cursing under his breath as the tongue bunches up and the laces tangle and refuse to cooperate. Whoever thought of high-top sneakers for kids should be drawn and quartered.

 

“Will Bucky wike my shirt?”

 

“I’m sure he’ll love it.” Finally the sneakers are on and tied. Saints be praised. “Ok, let’s go.” He holds out his hand to help Thor down, but Thor holds up his arms to be carried. _God, not again_.

 

“Can’t you walk?”

 

“I need you to carry me.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I feel safe when you carry me.”

 

_Shit, kid. You gotta stop doing that._ “Ok, fine.” Clint picks Thor up and sets him on his hip. One of Thor’s arms wraps around Clint’s neck and the other clutches the bear. “I need a backpack or something to carry you in.”

 

“Dat would be a good idea, Cwint. Den you’d neber have to put me down.”

 

“Yeah, great. Perfect.”

 

The closer they get to the dining room, the tighter Thor’s arm gets around Clint’s neck, until by the time they reach the floor, Thor has practically crawled inside Clint’s shirt. The delicious smell of tomato sauce hits them the second the elevator opens, and Clint’s mouth starts watering. He has been eating mainly junk food for the past two days, so his stomach is ready for some real food. Bruce’s spaghetti sauce is the bomb.

 

Everyone looks up and smiles when they enter the room, but they all keep their distance, which Clint is grateful for. He likes the skin on his neck to stay where it is, thank you very much. It looks like the whole team is there: Natasha and Wanda are hanging out on the couch chatting; Sam is wiping down the table while Steve stands by with a stack of plates; Bruce is in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove; Vision, next to him, is chopping vegetables under Tony’s careful tutelage. . . Actually, _not_ the whole team. Everyone except Bucky. _Goddammit_. 

 

Thor lifts his head just long enough to survey the crowd warily, probably looking for and not finding Bucky, then ducks in against Clint’s shoulder again. Outside the window dark clouds are gathering. _Shit! What the hell is wrong with you, Bucky?_

 

Shifting Thor to his right arm, Clint pulls out his phone with his left and texts Bucky. **Don’t make me a liar. Get your butt up here, Grandpa.** Then he slips the phone back into his pocket because he doesn’t expect a response. The only response he cares about is Bucky walking through that door, the sooner the better because he’s seeing spots from lack of blood flow to his brain due to his Thor-shaped collar, and it’s definitely starting to rain out there. Poor New Yorkers.

 

“Hey, everyone. Thor, you remember everyone, don’t you? Say hello, buddy.”

 

“Hewwo,” Thor mumbles into Clint’s shoulder. Everyone greets them enthusiastically with waves and hellos, but Thor keeps his face hidden and his arms wound tightly around Clint’s neck. 

 

“Hey, Thor,” Sam says casually, coming over to them with his hands in his pockets. “Nice to see you.”

 

Thor says, “Hewwo, Sam,” without lifting his head from Clint’s shoulder.

 

“Hey, that’s a cool shirt, buddy.”

 

“I have a silber arm wike Bucky,” Thor says gravely, holding up his left arm.

 

“I can see that. Oh, and you have something behind your ear, too.”

 

Thor finally lifts his head from Clint’s shoulder. “I do?” he says, his voice a mix of caution and curiosity.

 

“Yeah. Look at this.” Sam puts his hand behind Thor’s ear and comes out with a quarter, which he holds out to the kid. “You had this behind your ear.”

 

Thor’s eyes widen as he takes the quarter. “Where did dat come from? Can you do magic wike Woki?” 

 

Sam laughs. “It’s just a trick, pal. It’s not real magic.”

 

“Woki’s is real,” Thor assures him, examining the quarter. “He can make you fink he’s someone else!”

 

“You don’t say,” Steve says in an undertone from where he is setting the table. Clint fixes him with a look, and Steve quickly focuses his attention on straightening the forks like it’s an matter of national importance.

 

“Can I put you down now, pal?” Clint asks. He hopes Thor will let go of his neck, but those arms just grip him tighter. _God, need oxygen. Can’t. breathe._ “Ok, ok, loosen up there a little, pal. I won’t put you down.”

 

“Can I take ya?” a rough voice says from behind them. Oh, thank the lord above.

 

“Bucky!” Thor cries. He releases Clint’s neck (ah, sweet oxygen!) and lets Bucky sling him onto his back, where he hangs on with one hand, Bucky bear still clutched in his other fist, a huge grin on his face.  “Cwint! Bucky is here!”

 

“I see that, pal, and not a moment too soon,” Clint says, rubbing his throat where he is sure he has a red mark from Thor’s grip. The kid is freakishly strong, which Clint supposes he should have expected given that he is an ACTUAL NORSE GOD after all. “I almost thought he wasn’t coming.”

 

“Couldn’t break his heart, could I?”

 

Yes, actually, Clint thought he could. Thought he _would_. He finds himself unreasonably happy to be proven wrong.

 

Natasha picks up the soft foam ball they keep in the common room to entertain Nathaniel, tosses it in the air and catches it again. “Thor, catch!” she calls, holding up the ball. Thor just freezes and stares at her, so Nat lobs it to Bucky instead, who holds it over his shoulder to Thor.

 

Thor doesn’t take it because he’s too busy giving Steve the side-eye, but Steve is still setting the table and doesn’t even seem to notice.

 

“Here ya go, squirt,” Bucky says, gesturing with the ball until Thor finally takes it, but then he just holds it in both hands, looking back and forth between Steve, who hasn’t looked up from the stack of glasses he is distributing, and Natasha, who has both hands up ready to catch. Finally he turns to Clint with anxiety written all over his little face.

 

“What am I ‘posed to do wif it?” he asks.

 

“Throw it to Nat,” Clint says, amused. Surely the kid has seen a ball before? And even if he hasn’t, he just saw Natasha throw it to Bucky, which should have given him a clue.

 

“In the house??” Thor says in a scandalized whisper.

 

Oh, that’s what the anxiety is about. “Yeah, it’s fine. This ball is soft,” he assures the kid, but his eyebrows don’t uncrease.

 

“Will ‘Teve be mad?”

 

“Heck no, Steve’ll probably join in.”

 

With one last worried glance at Steve, Thor tosses the ball tentatively to Natasha, who catches it one-handed and wings it to Wanda. 

 

“Sam, catch!” Wanda calls to Sam. He holds up his hand and Wanda throws it to him. Sam passes it on to Tony, who catches it without even looking up and does a behind-the-back toss back to Nat. 

 

Clint is tracking all of this while he watches Thor’s face out of the corner of his eye. The kid has gone observant again: his fingers are twisted in the shoulders of Bucky’s shirt, baby teeth worry his bottom lip, and his very serious eyes follow the ball as it moves back and forth amongst the members of the team. It’s obvious by the way his gaze keeps flicking to Steve that he’s worried about the game getting out of hand and them all getting in trouble. Clint has an idea about what that would mean in Thor’s house and he doesn’t like it. 

 

The best way to reassure the kid is for Steve to join in, but Steve is still standing by the table watching. Shit, he’s chewing his lip too. _Just get over it already, Rogers. This kid will love you instantly if you’ll just_ ** _play_** _with him._

 

Nat finally tosses the ball to Clint. Time to get Steve involved in the game so Thor can relax. “Yo, Steve,” Clint calls, and throws the ball to Steve without even waiting for a response. He knows those super soldier reflexes will kick in before it hits him in the face, which of course they do.

 

After Steve catches the ball, he comes closer but then just stands with it in his hands like he isn’t sure what to do. _Come on, Steve, this isn’t rocket surgery. Throw the kid the ball._

 

“Um. . . here, Thor, ready to catch?” Steve says finally, holding up the ball. Thor’s eyes widen. He immediately gives the bear to Clint, and his hands pops up.

 

“Yes, ‘Teve, I’m ready,” he says in a very serious tone, like it’s a job interview instead of a simple game of catch.

 

Steve lobs the ball very gently and it falls right into Thor’s hands. Thor’s serious expression instantly transforms into a huge grin. “I catched it, Bucky!” he says proudly, holding up the ball. “I catched it!”

 

“Good job, kid,” Bucky says, “now throw it to someone.”

 

Thor glances at Steve, then throws the ball to Natasha, probably because she’s closest, and he knows she’s safe. She passes it on and then the ball is zinging around the room while Thor giggles and bounces up and down on Bucky’s back. “Dis is fun, Cwint!” he shouts in sheer joy, and damned if Clint doesn’t get choked up a little, because _there’s_ the Thor he knows and has missed for the past several months. As much as he hopes Tony and company can find a solution quickly and get Thor back to his right size, he doesn’t mind having the old enthusiastic Thor back for just a little while.

 

And then, just when everyone is finally having fun and the kid is over-the-top excited and the sky has turned a brilliant blue outside, Thor throws the ball too hard without looking. Steve, of course, has to dive for it and ends up catching his enormous foot on the coffee table. As Steve is falling on a collision course with a lamp, Clint sees the exact moment when Thor’s face goes from sheer joy to sheer panic. Bucky makes a little gagging noise as Thor’s arms close tightly around his neck and now someone else knows what THAT feels like.

 

There is a flash of red that Clint thinks for a second is maybe lightning before he realizes that Wanda has used her magic shit to catch Steve mid-air so he doesn’t crash into the lamp but instead falls harmlessly onto the couch. Thor's head swivels to Wanda and his mouth drops open at the flashes of red lightning still flickering around her fingers.

 

“Now SHE can do REAL magic,” Sam says, high-fiving Wanda, who just shrugs.

 

“I’m afraid I cannot take credit for my abilities.”

 

“It’s ok, pal, no harm no foul,” Sam says to Thor, patting him on the shoulder. Thor is too busy goggling at Wanda to respond. 

 

“My mother can do magic too,” he says to Wanda earnestly. “She can do iwwusions. Would you wike to meet her when you take me home?”

 

All the activity in the room grinds to an awkward halt. They all just look at each other for a moment until Bruce finally interrupts the silence with, “Dinner is ready.” And then everyone is suddenly very busy with washing hands and taking food to the table and finding seats, and luckily Thor is too distracted to notice that Wanda didn’t answer him.

 

Bucky holds the kid out to Clint to wash his hands. _Seriously? This is Clint’s life now?_

 

At the table, Clint finds a taller chair drawn up to the right of his usual spot, with a smaller plate and fork set in front of it. This must be Thor’s place, but when he tries to put the kid on the chair, Thor wraps his knees around Clint’s waist and refuses to be put down.

 

“That’s your seat right there,” Clint informs him, trying to work one of Thor’s legs free.

 

“I need to sit on your wap,” Thor says anxiously into Clint’s ear.

 

“Need to, huh?”

 

“Yes. Den I will feel safe.”

 

_Shit_. _Lost again._ “All right, fine.” Clint sits in his chair and arranges Thor on his lap, then pulls the smaller plate over next to his plate. “Better?”

 

“Yes. Dis is a good pwace to sit.”

 

“Yeah. Right.”

 

Even though he can barely see over the table, Thor manages to spy the basket of bread. Next thing Clint knows, his little hand sneaks out a grabs a piece. He’s got it in his mouth before Clint can tell him to wait until everyone is seated, so he just decides not to worry about it. Who cares if the kid starts eating? Thor always has half his dinner eaten before anyone else has taken a bite anyway. Or at least he used to. He doesn’t quite eat with the same enthusiasm these days. _Didn’t_.

 

Aaand Bucky has taken the seat to Clint’s left. Bucky NEVER sits by him. Bucky always sits at the end of the table next to Steve, with his back to the wall so he has a good view of the whole room (Clint understands the sentiment, although he is usually able to suppress that urge during team dinners). And he’s on Clint’s LEFT, which means they are going to be bumping elbows the whole meal. So not only does Clint have a kid sitting on his lap, he won’t even be able to move his arm to eat. Greaaaaat.

 

“What’s dat ‘tuff?” Thor says, nose wrinkled, pointing to the pasta with sauce that Bruce has set in the middle of the table.

 

“Spaghetti.”

 

“‘Paketti?”

 

_Close enough_. “That’s right. You’ll like it,” Clint assures him. _Don’t say you don’t like it, please, just don’t say—_

 

“I don’t wike it.”

 

Clint sighs. “Come on, buddy, just try a little bit. Bruce made it.”

 

Thor’s face screws up in a way that Clint recognizes as anxiety kicking in. A minute ago it had been nearly clear outside, but now dark clouds are starting to gather, obscuring the sunset. This definitely isn’t worth the fight. Clint is about to tell him not to worry about it, when Bucky scoops up a spoonful of spaghetti and dumps it onto Thor’s little plate.  _Please don’t say he has to eat it, please just don’t say—_

 

“Eat it, kiddo, it’s good,” Bucky says gruffly, holding the bowl out to Clint.

 

“I don’t want it,” Thor says. There’s a worried edge to his voice now. Outside, a light rain has started to fall. _Shit, just stop already._

 

“Just try it,” Bucky says in a firm tone. _Don’t give him an ultimatum, please just don’t—_

 

“You gotta take a bite before you say you don’t like it. Take a bite,” Bucky says, pushing the plate toward Thor, who blinks up at him, and then down at the plate like it’s full of poisonous snakes. 

 

_Goddammit, Bucky. You finally open your mouth and it turns out you’re just as full of shit as the rest of us._

 

The light rain turns into a downpour. Everyone is sort of half-watching but pretending like they aren’t, probably because they don’t know what to say. Steve looks almost as anxious as Thor. Finally Clint has had enough of this train wreck. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to—“

 

“It’s spaghetti,” Bucky interrupts. “What kid doesn’t like spaghetti.”

 

This one, obviously, but Bucky is now loading up Thor’s fork with noodles and holding it out toward him.  “Come on, just a bite. It won’t hurt ya.”

 

As the fork approaches his mouth, Thor makes a hurking noise, then he starts to gag. Bucky immediately mutters “Shit,” and backs up out of the way in case the kid vomits all over them again, but Clint scoops Thor up and hurries away from the table with him before that can happen. Thor’s fingers twist in Clint’s shirt. His back is very straight, and he’s breathing hard, making a little whimpering noise with each exhale, but at least he isn’t gagging anymore, so that’s good.

 

When they reach the atrium by the elevators, Clint sits down with Thor on his lap and rubs his back, even though Thor is holding himself stiff, leaning away from Clint with his fists digging into his eyes, refusing to be comforted. “You’re ok, buddy,” he reassures him, because the kid is still making that pathetic whimpering sound and his shoulders are jerking up and down like a puppet on a string. 

 

How the hell is he supposed to get this kid to eat? Laura would know how to do it. Laura would just give him a look and he would start shoveling it in, wouldn’t she? What would she say in this situation?

 

“I want my mother,” Thor says in a small, quavering voice, hands still pressed to his eyes, and suddenly Clint knows what Laura would say: _Don’t_.

 

_Don’t try to force him to eat. Don’t fight this fight._

 

Clint thinks he knows Thor, but he realizes now that he knows the _adult_ Thor, who has had years— _centuries_ —to develop self-control and expand his palate. _This_ kid, on the other hand—this kid is terrified and traumatized and he’s in an unfamiliar place among complete strangers who have essentially kidnapped him for a second time for all he knows. Don’t add to that trauma by force-feeding him strange foods.

 

“It’s ok, Thor, you don’t have to eat that.”

 

Slowly Thor’s hands come down from in front of his eyes, which are wet but hopeful. “I don’t?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Will Bruce be mad if I don’t eat his ‘paketti?”

 

“No, Bruce won’t be mad. He’s an expert at keeping his cool.”

 

“What about Bucky?”

 

“Uh—he won’t be mad either. Maybe you can eat something different.”

 

“Peamut bummer jewwy?” Thor asks hopefully.

 

“Well, maybe not that, but how about just the noodles, no sauce? Noodles are good with butter. Can you try that?”

 

“Will Bucky be proud of me if I eat dat?”

 

_He’d better be._ “I can promise you I will be proud of you. How about that?”

 

Thor takes in a shuddery breath and squares his shoulders. “I can fy dat, Cwint. I want you to be proud of me.”

 

_Ok, kiddo, you can stop twisting the knife now._ “Great. And I think there’s dessert too. I bet Wanda made a yummy pie.” While Thor wipes his face, Clint digs out his phone and texts Bruce. **Do you have any plain spaghetti left?**

 

Bruce’s response is immediate. _Yes, I’ll get some ready for him_. Bruce is awesome like that.

 

Tucking his phone into his pocket, Clint says, “Can we go back to the table now?”

 

“Will Bucky make me eat the ‘paketti sauce?”

 

_Not if he wants to live._ “I’ll tell him our deal.”

 

“Ok, Cwint. Fank you.”

 

* * *

 

When they get back to the table, there is a bowl of plain pasta and meatballs next to Thor’s plate. Everyone is chatting amiably, but Clint picks up on a strained undercurrent. Maybe it’s Natasha’s laugh, which is a little too bright. Maybe it’s Steve’s deer in the headlights expression. Maybe it’s the slight greenish tinge to Bruce’s fingernails. Maybe it’s the way Sam and Wanda are glaring daggers at Bucky, who is staring at the far wall with his mouth and eyebrows in straight lines. 

 

Aww, Bucky totally got read the riot act in their absence. The realization gives Clint a warm feeling in his chest.

 

“Welcome back to Shangri-La, gentlemen, where everyone is happy all the time,” Tony intones, gesturing around the table. “As you can see, we all get along perfectly here and there was definitely no whisper-shouting while you were gone. Nope. None whatsoever.”

 

“Good to hear, Tony. Don’t you think so, Thor?” Clint settles into his chair with Thor on his lap. The kid is still turned sideways, hanging onto him with both hands.

 

Thor looks around the table warily. “Yes, I ‘pose so.” His fingernails dig into Clint’s neck again, so Clint gently pries his fingers free and turns him to face the table. 

 

“And look, Bruce gave you some noodles with butter.”

 

Thor eyes the noodles, then Bucky, who is still staring at the far wall, then says gravely, “Fank you, Bruce.”

 

“You’re welcome, Thor.”

 

Thor swallows hard. “I will fy the noodohs and dese widdoh balls of meat,” he says in a brave but quavering voice. “Den Cwint will be proud of me.”

 

“Yes, I will,” Clint says firmly. Across the table, Sam clears his throat and cocks his head at Bucky, who finally makes eyes contact. Some sort of silent communication is happening there that Clint doesn’t quite understand, but it involves Sam jerking his head Thor’s direction like he’s developed a tic. Finally Bucky blinks and turns to Thor.

 

“Uh—hey, squirt, you don’t. . . you don’t gotta eat the sauce.”

 

Thor’s head jerks up from his inspection of the noodles. “You’re not mad at me?”

 

“No, I ain’t mad.” Bucky cuts his eyes to Sam, who raises his eyebrows expectantly. “I—uh. I’m sorry,” Bucky mumbles.

 

Thor breaks out into a huge grin and pats Bucky on the shoulder. “Dat’s all right, Bucky. I forgive you.”

 

Aaand cue the melty-heart faces all around. Except Bucky, of course, who looks almost as grumpy as always, except for the tiny upward twitch at the corner of his mouth.

 

Thor picks up a single noodle with his fingers and takes a small nibble, then pokes around at the meatballs with his knife for quite a while without taking a bite. After several minutes of silence during which everyone eyes Thor warily, Bucky gets up, grabs the bottle of ketchup from the fridge, and thunks it down next to Thor’s plate. 

 

“What’s dat?”

 

“Ketchup. You like it.”

 

“I wike it?”

 

Shit. _Don’t question it don’t question it don’t question it._

 

“Um—I mean—You will like it,” Bucky corrects himself. He up-ends the bottle and squirts ketchup onto one of the meatballs on Thor’s plate. “Try it.”

 

Sam clears his throat.

 

“I mean—if you want,” Bucky amends hastily. Sam makes a noise of approval that Bucky does not appear to appreciate, judging by the way the muscle at his temple is jumping. Clint is enjoying this way too much. Nat is too, judging by the glimpse he gets of her phone aimed in their direction.

 

“Ok, Bucky, I will fy it.” He picks up an entire meatball with his hand and stuffs the whole thing in his mouth. “Ketchup is good!” he says, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. “Put some on the noodohs too!” 

 

* * *

 

 

Clint finds that eating dinner with a squirmy, uncoordinated kid on his lap is quite a challenge. First it’s the knife, which Clint grabs just before Thor jabs himself in the eye. Clint cuts up Thor’s noodles and meatballs into little pieces and puts the fork in his hand. “Just eat with your fork.”

 

Next to go is the fork, which the kid can’t quite get the hang of. He holds it upside-down with his whole fist, and his attempts at bites of noodles end up with ketchup all over his face and most of the food falling off the fork and onto the table and Clint and Bucky’s laps. Clint takes it and hands him a spoon instead.

 

Then the cup, which Vision, on Clint’s right, catches mid-spill. Luckily it’s just apple juice, which, though sticky, is at least clear. By now the table looks like a grisly murder scene with ketchup smeared all over it. Clint takes the cup and wipes up the juice with his napkin, and then Thor’s napkin while everyone either stares at them or ignores them.

 

The spoon doesn’t work very well for the kid either. After a few tries at it with little food actually making it into his mouth, Thor abandons it. Next thing Clint knows, Thor is scooping up noodles with his hands and shoving them directly into his mouth. Clint is not quite quick enough to stop him from wiping the grease and ketchup onto both of their shirts. He grabs the kid’s hands and looks around for something to wipe them on, but both his and Thor’s napkins are covered in apple juice, so he swipes Vision’s unused napkin and wipes Thor’s hands as well as he can. When he looks up, both Nat and Wanda are looking down at Nat’s lap with little smiles that they are obviously trying to hide. Shit, what did she get a picture of now?

 

Across the table, Tony says under his breath to Bruce, “Not so different from how he usually eats, right?” 

 

_Thanks, guys, really. Thanks for the help. You are all awesome._  

 


	11. Waba Wamp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a 4:00 in the MORNING. Widdoh Four doesn't know what dat means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to have this story done before the new Thor movie came out but oh my goodness life has gotten crazy busy! The good news is I'm posting chapters as soon as I write them (a first for me--we'll see how it turns out) so you'll get new chapters as quickly as I have them ready. The bad news is what I have posted is all I have written so far and I don't have much time to write these days, so it might be a while before I have the next chapter done.

It’s bedtime, but Thor has lost his Bucky Bear and says through sniffles, “I can’t sweep wifout it, Cwint.” At least that’s what Clint THINKS he said. He’s got about half the cape stuffed in his mouth so his speech is even more garbled than usual. 

 

Clint knows exactly where the Bucky Bear is—sitting on the couch in the common room where Clint dropped it before dinner. It’s late and Thor is already in his pajamas (ok, STILL in his filthy Hawkeye pajamas that Clint can’t convince him to take off, but hey, he’s already dressed for bed and isn’t that convenient?), so Clint would like to just go get the stupid thing in the morning, but Thor isn’t on board with that idea.

 

“But I need my Bucky Bear,” Thor insists sadly, eyes brimming with tears.

 

Clint sits back on his heels and rubs his forehead. “Ok, tell you what—If we go get the bear, you gotta sleep in your own bed tonight. Deal?”

 

Thor chews the cape while he looks back and forth between the kids’ bedroom and Clint’s bedroom, then he finally squares his little shoulders and nods. “I will sweep in the widdoh bed, Cwint,” he says bravely. “My Bucky Bear will keep me safe.”

 

“Good boy,” Clint says, patting Thor on the shoulder. “You’ll be safe and we can both sleep better. Perfect. I’m glad we had this little talk.” He starts walking toward the door, but the kid gets in front of him somehow and raises his hands to be carried so apparently they are doing that again. Clint’s arms feel like they are going to fall off, but then Thor snuggles in with his head on Clint’s shoulder and he supposes it’s not so bad after all. At least the kid’s hair smells good now. Kind of citrusy and sweet, with top notes of. . . tomato. Yeah.

 

After the Bucky Bear has been retrieved, and Thor is clutching it so hard Clint is surprised it hasn’t busted a seam, Clint carries Thor into the kids’ room and pulls back the covers on Cooper’s bed. 

 

“Ok, hop in, kiddo,” Clint says. Thor doesn’t exactly hop, more like reluctantly peel his knees away from Clint’s waist and allow himself to be settled onto the bed. “Lay down and I’ll tuck you in.”

 

Thor obeys silently, eyebrows pulled down and lips pursed like he’s thinking hard. “You ok, Thor?” Clint asks while he straightens the cape and tugs the blanket up.

 

“Yes,” Thor says, but his brow is still furrowed in thought. Clint has learned over the years that kids will usually share what they are thinking about if you give them the opportunity, so he takes his time fluffing the bear and tucking the blanket in around the kid’s shoulders, waiting.

 

Just as he is reaching to turn off the lamp, Thor says “Cwint?”

 

“Yeah, buddy?”

 

“I fink I know why my father didn’t want me back.”

 

Oh, shit, THIS is what the kid has been thinking about? What the hell is he supposed to say now? While he’s trying to think of a response that will a) reassure the kid, and b) not give away the real reason he can’t go home, Thor continues:

 

“He’s already got Woki, and he onwy needs one widdoh boy. Woki is much cweberer anyway. Father is always tewwing me I’m ‘tupid.”

 

A hard lump suddenly appears in Clint’s throat. _Rejected. Stupid. Worthless—_ Is this how Thor sees himself? Is this how the adult Thor—strong, confident, _powerful_ Thor—sees himself?  Dammit, Clint already had a pretty low opinion of Odin’s parenting, but this. . . 

 

“Thor. . .” he starts softly, but then doesn’t know how to finish that thought, so he settles for gently brushing back a sticky lock of hair from Thor’s forehead. He wants to reassure the kid that his father loves him and definitely wants him back, but he can’t quite bring himself to say it because he’s not sure if Thor will believe it. Hell, he’s not even sure it’s _true_.

 

Thor sniffles and rubs his nose on a dry corner of the cape. “But dat’s ok, Cwint. I can ‘tay here for a while. Maybe my mother will miss me and come wooking for me wayter.”

 

“We’re working on. . . getting you back where you belong, buddy. Tony and Bruce and Vision are working as fast as they can.”

 

“I know dat, Cwint. I know you’re not wying to me.”

 

Clint’s guts give a twist, because he has done nothing BUT lie to Thor from the minute they found him, and the kid still trusts him wholeheartedly. He feels like the world’s biggest shitheel.

 

“Good night, Cwint,” Thor says. 

 

“Goodnight, kiddo.” 

 

Thor unexpectedly wraps his arms around Clint’s neck in a hug. “Fank you for taking good care of me,” he says sweetly, and Clint can feel pressure building at the backs of eyes because there’s no way he deserves that. 

 

“. . . You’re welcome, Thor,” he says as evenly as he can because goddammit what the hell are they doing to this kid? It’s really not fair. By all rights it should be Steve sitting here getting his heart ripped to shreds, because he’s the one who made the decision not to tell Thor the truth, not Clint.

 

* * *

 

Clint’s so tired that, despite his intention to stay up and watch Pulp Fiction by himself _dammit_ , he falls asleep almost immediately without even changing into pajamas or getting under the covers. So he’s a little disoriented when he wakes suddenly without knowing why. He didn’t hear any noise and there are no lights. Even his StarkPad has shut itself off from inactivity. So what woke him up?

 

He glances left at the clock, which shows 1:37, then to the right where he finds himself nose to nose with Thor, his golden hair sticking out like a halo and huge bright blue eyes almost glowing in the dark.

 

“Fu—Geez, kid, you scared me,” he mutters. Thor, who is tightly clutching his bear, cape trailing along behind him, continues to stand there silently. “What’s up?” Clint asks, rubbing at his face trying to wake up.

 

“Do you fink my father told my mother I was dead?” Thor says in a woebegone voice. “Is dat why she hasn’t come wooking for me? Or maybe she doesn’t want me eider.”

 

“Aw, buddy, come on up here.” Clint picks Thor up under the armpits and settles him on the bed where he collapses into a miserable little lump. “I don’t. . . I don’t think your mother doesn’t want you—“ _(because she’s dead—no don’t tell him that)_ “—but you’re safe here, and we all want you.”

 

Thor sniffles. “Can I sweep here, Cwint? Pwease?’ 

 

 _Oh, god, that wobbly little lip is going to be the death of him._ “Yeah, buddy, you can sleep here. Of course you can.”

 

“Fank you,” Thor says. Without waiting for permission, the kid snuggles in against Clint and lays his head on Clint’s shoulder. Ketchup-scented hair tickles Clint’s nose. He can feel Thor’s soft breaths against his collarbone, hitched and jerky at first, then evening out within a couple of minutes as he falls back to sleep. Clint sighs and pulls the cape up around the kid’s bony shoulder. How long is he going to be like this? Clint’s not sure how much more his heart can take.

 

Being careful not to jostle the sleeping kid, Clint picks up his phone and texts Tony. **Did you get that stupid rock thing figured out yet?**

 

He’s half-asleep and the phone is about to fall out of his hand when Tony’s response comes through. He jumps when it buzzes, bobbles the phone and nearly drops it. Luckily the kid doesn’t stir.

 

_Well, we’ve figured out it’s not terrestial in origin. Has a number of very interesting properties. Contains Uraninite and Caesium-137 alloy, making it photosensitive and ductile. It’s highly basic, pyrophoric, and non-water-soluble. Orange color comes from dichromate._

 

Clint has to read the text three times before he realizes he has no idea what Tony is talking about. **None of those words mean anything to me. Do you know how to reverse the process? Please respond in English.**

 

_Long story short? No idea. Clear enough for you?_

 

**Come on, Tony, give me some hope here cuz the god of Thunder just cried himself to sleep on me.**

 

_We are working on it. Bruce and I haven’t slept in two days. But it’s a slow process and we have to be careful because this stuff is dangerous, even for me. I don’t want to accidentally cause a meltdown that kills us all._

 

**Ok. Sorry Tony.**

 

Clint tosses the phone onto the bed and looks down at the kid’s profile, at those gorgeous long dark lashes, the dark bruise marring the pale skin around his eye. What if it takes Tony and Co. weeks to reverse this? What if they NEVER figure it out? What’s going to happen to this kid? He can’t live here with the team indefinitely, can he? Clint gets a sudden pain in his chest at the thought of having to send Thor away to be raised by strangers. It hits him that he actually wants to _keep_ this kid. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation, but he starts thinking about taking Thor out to the farm, introducing him to his family. Laura would probably go for it. She's been saying she wishes Nathaniel could stay little forever. With this kid she could get her wish. And Nathaniel has been asking for a brother his age to play with, because Cooper is a teenager now and doesn’t want to hang out with a snot-nosed five-year-old.

 

And then Clint realizes, they are the same age now, but what happens in a few years when Nathaniel is the teenager, and Thor is still a snot-nosed five-year-old? And when Nathaniel is fucking SEVENTY and Thor is finally going through puberty and god help us all. If Clint thinks the kid’s lack of emotional control is a problem NOW, what will it be like when the hormones kick in?

 

* * *

 

Did you know there’s a 4:00 in the MORNING? Clint does now. Widdoh Four finks dat’s a perfect time to jump on the fampowine.

 

“Cwint! CWINT!! Watch me do a fwip!!”

 

“Yeah, looks great, buddy.”

 

“ _Cwint_! You can’t watch me wif your eyes cwosed!”

 

“Sorry, buddy. It’s four in the morning.”

 

“I don’t know what dat means. Wanna jump wif me?!”

 

_Groan_

  

* * *

 

Clint sits on the only cushion left on the couch and watches through half-closed eyes while Thor races up and down the hallway crashing trucks into each other at full speed and volume.

 

“'MASH! CRASH!! DESE FUCKS ‘MASHED UP!! WOOK CWINT!! WOOK!!”

 

“Uh-huh,” Clint mutters, because he has discovered that if he doesn’t respond, Thor only gets louder and more insistent, once even coming over and peeling back Clint’s eyelids to shout “WOOK!!” in his face. Clint wanted so badly to shout back at him, but the kid’s expression of delight when Clint opened his eyes was just so pure and beautiful that the anger drained away and he ended up forcing a smile while the kid bounced away again, leaving a trail of dented furniture behind him.

 

In Clint’s hand is his third cup of coffee of the day, made from the last bit of grounds left in his apartment. If he doesn’t get any more today, then tomorrow morning he will be stuck going down to the communal kitchen and drinking the paint thinner that Steve makes. Maybe by tomorrow he will need it.

 

When his phone buzzes, it takes his sleep-deprived brain a minute to separate the noise from the general chaos happening all around him and figure out what it means.

 

_Text from Natasha_

_How’s it going?_

 

What the hell time is it? Not even 6:30 in the morning? They’ve already been to the gym, eaten a whole box of Pop-tarts for breakfast, been spilled on at least twice, suffered through a broken glass (well, all of New York suffered through that), attempted and failed at a bath, attempted and failed at getting Thor to at least change his clothes, and attempted and failed at brushing Thor’s teeth, and it’s only 6:27 am?? How long is a day again? He has over thirteen hours left of this before he can put this kid to bed?

 

**I’m 45 years old. I’ve got a semi-permanent babysitting gig with a kid whose dominant personality trait is “exuberance.” How do you think it’s going??**

 

He is interrupted by a crash from the bedroom before Natasha can respond. Said crash is immediately followed by a boom of thunder and a sudden downpour. What was the casualty this time? The lamp? Cooper's prized baseball trophy? THE UNIVERSE ITSELF??

 

* * *

 

He is cleaning up glass from Lila’s lava lamp (“Waba wamp?” _Sigh._ “Yes, that’s right, it’s a waba wamp.”) while a barefoot Thor sits on the bed and sniffles out the last of his sorrowful tears, when there is a knock at the door. 

 

“BUCKY IS HERE!” Thor screeches. He leaps at least six feet from the bed, clear over the pile of glass, and sprints down the hallway to the front door while Clint awkwardly straggles after him with the broom under one arm and a full dustpan in the other hand.

 

“I doubt it’s Bucky,” Clint calls, just as Thor manages to get the door open. Clint almost drops the dustpan in shock when he sees that it is indeed Bucky, standing back with his hands jammed in his pockets. Bucky’s eyes rake over the scene, obviously taking in Thor’s filthy pajamas and sticky hair, the broken glass in the dustpan, and the generally disorder in the apartment.

 

Bucky has the audacity to _grin_. 

 

Clint briefly considers throwing the broken glass in his face. It would be so satisfying. But then Bucky would beat him to death, and he doesn’t want the kid to see that.

 

“Bucky!”

 

“Hiya, squirt,” Bucky says, looking down at Thor’s dirty face. “Thought you might like to come spar with me.” Bucky is here to rescue him? _BLESS YOU BUCKY BARNES._

 

“‘Par? Wike faining?!”

 

“. . . Uh. . .” Bucky cuts his eyes to Clint, who takes mercy on him and translates.

 

“Training. He means training. And yes, sparring is like training.”

 

Thor starts hopping up and down in excitement. “Yes!! I want to ‘par wif you, Bucky! Wet’s go!!” He grabs Bucky’s metal hand and starts pulling him out the door, but Bucky pulls him back.

 

“Don’t you wanna get dressed first?” he says, eyebrows raised.

 

“I can put on my Bucky shirt!” Thor cries. He sprints down the hallway and comes racing back a second later with the equally filthy Bucky shirt on over his pajamas, and the Bucky Bear tucked under his arm. “Ok, I’m ready, Bucky, wet’s go pway!”

 

Bucky runs his fingers through his hair and shakes his head in obvious amusement. “Ok, if you’re ready.”

 

As they head down the hallway toward the elevator, Clint hears the negotiations start:

 

“Carry me, Bucky!”

 

“You got legs.”

 

“If you carry me, the bad guys can’t get me. Pweeeeease?”

 

_Oh, the big guns. Nice move, kid._

 

“Huh. Yeah, ok. This time.” 

 

 _Check and mate_. Clint is grateful to know he’s not the only one who caves when the kid makes that move. Closing the door behind them, Clint slowly turns and surveys the mess in his apartment: Toys strewn across the floor. Crumbs and sticky spots of jam on every horizontal surface, and a few vertical ones as well. Thor’s discarded shoes, socks, and jeans making a trail from the doorway to the bathroom. The cape and Lila’s quilt and the blanket from Nathaniel’s bed draped from the end of the couch to the easy chair and two out of three couch cushions underneath, making a fort that entertained the kid for all of seven seconds. Time to start cleaning it all up.

 

He sits on the floor and reaches into the fort for the cushions, but ends up laying down on them instead with his head inside the fort and his legs sticking out. It’s comfy here. So comfy. He can clean up in a minute. Just need to rest a second first.


	12. BATTOH AX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint needs a break. Members of the team start stepping up. Wonder why? Oh, and lunch wif BUCKY!

Clint wakes with a start at the sound of a knock at the door. Where the hell is he? Somewhere lumpy and dark and suffocatingly hot. When he tries to sit up, he gets tangled in soft fabric—blankets? Oh, god, he fell asleep in Thor’s little fort and now it’s trying to strangle him.

 

The knocks at the door get more insistent, so Clint fights his way out of the blankets, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and heads to answer it. He can hear Thor’s high-pitched, excited voice now even through the closed door.

 

“DAT WAS FUN, BUCKY! I WIKE DAT FAMPOWINE!”

 

Right, break’s over. Maybe Bucky wore the kid out enough that he will take a nap later. Maybe they’ll go ice skating in hell. Clint takes a deep, steadying breath and opens the door, and Thor slides down out of Bucky’s arms and comes tearing in, caroms off the sofa, then leaps onto the coffee table. “CWINT! CWINT! Bucky wet me frow a BATTOH AX!”

 

“He did, huh?”

 

“YEAH! I frowed it hard! It ‘tuck in the wall!!”

 

“Really?” Clint cocks his head at Bucky, who has the good sense to look a bit sheepish. Well, Clint thinks that’s a sheepish look. Bucky’s hair is hanging down over his face so only one eye is visible.

 

“Thought we weren’t gonna tell Clint about that, squirt.”

 

“WHY NOT? Dat’s AWESOME, right Cwint?? And he frowed me up to the ceiwing!! Just wike fwying!”

 

Clint folds his arms and raises his eyebrows at Bucky, who shrugs. “He didn’t get hurt. No harm no foul, right?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

Thor leaps from the coffee table into the pile of blankets, rolls and pops up to his feet. “I’m gonna ride my ‘COOTER!”

 

Even though Thor isn’t paying any attention to him, Clint automatically runs his finger down his arm. “Ssss-cooter, remember?” 

 

“DAT’S WHAT I SAID!” Thor shouts as he sprints down the hallway to the bedroom. Clint can hear him bouncing off the furniture, then the door slams so hard it rebounds. Several loud thumps follow, but no crash (and no thunder and lightning), so nothing is broken. So far anyway.

 

Clint shakes his head. He starts picking up blankets, expecting Bucky to leave, but instead he comes over, grabs the cushions and tosses them back onto the sofa. When that job is done, Bucky scoops up an armful of toys and looks around for a place to put them.

 

“Just. . . make a pile, I guess,” Clint says, gesturing toward the corner. “They belong in the bedroom really. Probably should get a basket or box or something out here for them if they’re gonna keep ending up out here anyway.”

 

Bucky piles the toys in the corner, but he still. doesn’t. leave. Instead he jams his hands in his pockets and _lurks_ , making Clint increasingly anxious. The only thing weirder than Bucky taking off awkwardly and silently is him _hanging around_ awkwardly and silently.

 

Finally, after Clint has folded the last blanket and added it to the stack, he straightens up and contemplates the ex-Soviet assassin in his living room. The muscle is twitching at Bucky’s temple and his one visible eye is jumping around the room focused on nothing. If he was anyone else, Clint would swear the guy was nervous. But why? Does he have another bombshell confession to make?

 

Bucky’s eye flicks to the hallway, where happy thumps and shouts are still coming from the direction of the kids’ bedroom, then to the door. He rocks forward onto his toes, obviously about to bolt. Wait for it . . . wait for it. . .

 

“Barton, you used that crib thing.”

 

Clint is so surprised that Bucky actually _talked_ to him that it takes him a minute to figure out that he has no idea what the man is talking _about_. “Uh. . . sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“The doc said.”

 

Doctor Cho said—? Oh! So that’s what she wanted to talk to him about the other day. “You mean the Cradle.”

 

Bucky shrugs. “Yeah. Whatever.”

 

“Yes, I’ve used the Cradle. Well, I used the previous one. She has a newer model now. Why?”

 

Bucky’s eye cuts to the hall again, then the door, then the mess in the kitchen—basically anywhere but at Clint. What the hell is he so nervous about? His neck looks like it’s turning red. Huh. Embarrassed, maybe? Ex-Soviet Assassins can get embarrassed? “She says—uh—she says it can fix scars and shit.” Bucky says finally, still not making eye contact. His neck is definitely red, and his cheek too, what Clint can see of it behind that curtain of hair.

 

“Yeah, I suppose so. It put me back together pretty well. No scars.” Clint lifts up his shirt to show his unblemished chest, but Bucky doesn’t even look because he’s too busy watching the door. Clint waits for him to make the next move—either say something else, or leave, but he does neither. After a minute, Clint gives up and starts piling up dishes to take back to the kitchen. Bucky fucking _follows_ him. What the hell is going on?

 

“Doc wants me to use it,” Bucky says finally, after Clint has long since given up on conversation and is loading the dishwasher.

 

“That’s a good idea. You should do it,” Clint says when he gets over the shock. Bucky Barnes is actually having a conversation with him. Maybe Clint should offer him a drink. Now that’s a ridiculous thought—Bucky Fucking Barnes sitting down and sharing a beer and chatting like a normal human being.

 

“I dunno. Maybe.”

 

“Maybe you should think about—you know—talking to someone,” Clint blurts out. That was stupid. Way to scare him away.

 

“I’m talking to you.” Bucky says, deadpan.

 

 _You are?_ Bucky seriously thinks this qualifies as ‘talking to someone?’ “I don’t mean me. I mean, like, talk to a professional. I can recommend someone.”

 

Bucky’s eye narrows and his shoulders stiffen. _Uh-oh, The Eye is angry._ “You been talking to Cho about me?” There it is. Now Clint has scared him away for real.

 

“What? No, of course not. Why do you think that?”

 

“She said that too.”

 

 _Oh, that’s a big surprise_. “Well, great minds think alike, I guess.”

 

Bucky adds a scowl to his narrowed eye. “I don’t need no fucking shrink.”

 

Is he joking? That’s gotta be a joke, but his face says no. Clint has to take a second with that one, because he’s never met anyone who needs a shrink more than Bucky Barnes. “You know,” Clint says casually, trying not to overplay it, “Sam is a counselor. He works with vets. Maybe—“

 

“Fuck that, I ain’t talking to Sam.”

 

“Then you could talk to Steve,” Clint prods gently.

 

“I ain’t doing that either. Don’t know why I’m talking to you.”

 

“Maybe it’s my charming personality. Look, if it’s confidentiality you’re worried about, the therapist I’ve been seeing is awesome. You could tell her anything and she’d never tell a soul.”

 

Bucky sort of blinks like he’s actually thinking about it, which is more than Clint expected, but he doesn’t say anything. Maybe the words are stuck again. Fuck it, Clint is gonna do it. Clint is gonna offer Bucky Barnes a beer. It’s been known to loosen a few tongues. Sam with a beer in his hand is a veritable fountain of shit. Even Natasha spills her guts after two drinks, three if it’s a Bad Day. “Want a beer?”

 

Bucky immediately takes a step backward toward the door. _The Eye is startled_. Good grief, he looks like Clint just coughed up a hairball and offered it to him. However, before he can bolt, Thor comes zooming back down the hall and slides across the kitchen in his socks.

 

“BUCKY!” His shout echoes painfully in the small space. “PWAY WIF ME!”

 

“Uh. . .” Aww, poor guy. Bucky looks so trapped that Clint almost feels sorry for him. Almost. Not enough to actually rescue him, of course.

 

“Come on, Bucky! Wet’s pway wif the FUCKS!”

 

“Um. . .” Bucky shoots a helpless glance at Clint. “. . .the what?”

 

“The fucks!”

 

“Trucks,” Clint clarifies, and then adds mischievously, “Hey, Thor, let’s get pizza. Maybe Bucky will stay for lunch.” 

 

“YEAH! Bucky, ‘tay for wunch!” Thor cries in excitement. He starts dancing around the kitchen scream-singing “YAY! Bucky is ‘taying for wunch!” and it’s over-the-top sweet and adorable to the point of ridiculousness.

 

It’s a low-down, dirty trick, and Bucky obviously knows it by the pointed glare The Eye is giving Clint. Clint just folds his arms and gazes at him innocently, and Bucky has no choice but to agree because not even the Winter Soldier could be heartless enough to say no to that little face.

 

* * *

 

Lunch with a terrifying assassin and an over-enthusiastic golden retriever puppy/godlet of thunder turns out to be . . . not so bad, actually. Thor even eats pizza once it is sufficiently doused in ketchup (well, he does pick off the pepperoni, and leaves the crust behind). Bucky makes SMALL TALK like someone is holding a knife to his throat, but hey, at least he talks, right?

 

“So, Bucky, when you were a kid, what sports did you like?”

 

“Don’t remember.”

 

“Really? How about baseball? Steve is a real baseball nut, I figured you went to games together.”

 

“Never had enough money to go to games.”

 

 _That’s funny, I thought you didn’t remember?_ “I know Steve went to—“

 

“We sat outside. Hill next to Ebbet’s field.”

 

“Oh, that explains—“

 

“Stevie wasn’t tall enough to see, so I gave him the play by play.”

 

“WHAT’S BASEBALL? WHAT’S A PWAYBYPWAY??”

 

Bucky doesn’t seem inclined to explain, so Clint says, “It’s a game, and play by play means Bucky told Steve what was happening.”

 

“It’s a game? Are dere SWORDS?!” Thor asks through a mouthful of pizza. He has ketchup streaked across his cheek like a serial killer, and a string of melted cheese hanging from his chin, but he doesn’t seem to care and Clint is too exhausted to fix it.

 

Clint waits for Bucky to respond, but he just grunts and attacks his fourth piece of pizza. _Insert a quarter to continue this conversation. . ._ Ok, Clint can do this. Clint knows how to keep a conversation going with a partner who doesn’t give much back. He’s had hour-long heart-to-hearts with the Hulk. “No, Thor, no swords. So Bucky, who was your favorite player?”

 

“Don’t remember.” Bucky wipes his hands on his napkin, and then starts trying to clean Thor’s face. Thor starts squirming, but Bucky just holds onto his head and carries on. When he finally tosses down the napkin, most of the ketchup is still there; it’s just been smeared around so much he looks like he’s wearing clown makeup. Clint’s not sure if Bucky thinks he’s finished the job, or if he’s just given up.

 

“Steve said you both liked Babe Phelps.”

 

Bucky blinks and starts spitting out baseball stats like a machine. “Babe Phelps. 1940 109 hits 61 RBIs in 370 at bats batting average 295 Dodgers 88 and 65 that year 2nd in league.” And then he calmly finishes his fifth piece of pizza and starts in on Thor’s abandoned crusts.

 

Clint gapes at him because. . . what? Just. . . what? He thinks Steve and Sam are weird when they start talking stats, but this guy. . . Bucky’s mind is like an ocean, and the memories are shipwrecks. You never know when a piece of debris is going to surface, isolated and out of context. Sometimes it's murdering an entire family. Sometimes it's being brutally raped. Sometimes it's _Babe Phelps 1940 109 hits 61 RBIs_  

 

 _Shit, that's depressing._  

 

“Um. . .Steve told me he saw Phelps hit a grand slam against the Reds,” Clint says, trying to lighten the mood.

 

Bucky swallows the last of the crusts and scoffs. “Stevie is full of shit.”

 

Thor crows, “YEAH! ’Tebie is full of SHIT!! What does FULL OF SHIT mean??”

 

So, you know, small talk with an ex-Soviet assassin and an alien toddler is _fun_.

 

* * *

 

That night he puts Thor to sleep in his own bed, and this time Clint’s even able to stay awake enough to start watching Pulp Fiction, but just as he gets to the part where they are sticking a needle into Uma Thurman’s chest, the kid shows up at his bedside hugging his bear, dragging his cape behind him like a bride's train.

 

“I can’t sweep,” he says, lower lip poking out. He sounds so sad and forlorn that Clint can’t help but scoop him up and tuck him into bed with him.

 

“It’s ok, pal, you can sleep here tonight.”

 

“Fank you,” Thor says drowsily, with his warm little fingers curled around Clint’s bicep. “What are dey doing to dat wady?”

 

“Oh, uh—“ Clint shuts off the StarkPad and sets it aside. “Never mind about that. Goodnight, kiddo.”

 

Clint’s awakened several hours later by a kick in the back, then a shriek followed by a boom of thunder. “MAMA!! MAMA!!” Thor screams. “Wet me go!! MAMA!!” 

 

“Hey, Thor, wake up,” Clint urges, trying to catch one of his flailing arms. “It’s ok, pal.”

 

“Cwint?” the kid whimpers. “Cwint, dey were puwwing me by my hair. Dey put shackohs on my arms and wegs. I couldn't get away.” And then he dissolves into tears in Clint’s arms, deep shuddering sobs that rack his thin shoulders while his fingers twist in Clint’s shirt and his face presses in against Clint’s neck. The tears quickly soak through Clint’s pajama shirt to dampen his skin.

 

“I’m sorry, Thor,” Clint whispers as he strokes Thor’s tangled hair. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

 

“Will you protec’ me, Cwint?”

 

“Yes, buddy, I’ll protect you. You’re safe here. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

 

“Fank you for re’cuing me,” Thor says, sniffling hard. He sits up and swipes at his face with the sleeve of his filthy pajamas. “I’m gwad you found me.”

 

“I’m glad we found you too, Thor.”

 

“What happened to the bad people who kibnapped me?”

 

Clint knows the answer to this question, at least in general even if he’s a little vague on the details, but he’s not sure if he wants to tell a preschooler that his new friends are stone cold killers. “Um. . . what do you want to have happened to them, buddy?”

 

Thor’s head lowers like a bull ready to fight. His soft jaw hardens and his little hands curl into fists. “Dey hurted Bucky. I want dem _dead_ ,” he says in a scary intense voice. A bolt of lightning illuminates the windows, followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder. _Note to self: do NOT get on this kid’s shit list._

 

“Yeah, they’re dead. Natasha and Wanda and Sam took care of them. They can't hurt anyone again.”

 

Just like that, the storm clears and Thor’s face goes back to soft and sweet again. “Dat’s good, Cwint,” he says through a yawn. “Can we have breakfas’ now?”

 

Clint squints at his phone on the bedside table. “It’s 1:30 in the morning.”

 

“So it’s morning?”

 

“No, it’s the middle of the night. We need to go back to sleep for a while first.”

 

Clint’s thinks Thor is going to argue, but instead he yawns again, so wide Clint can almost see his tonsils in the semi-dark. “Ok. Will you ‘nuggoh me?”

 

“Uh, sure, buddy.” Clint holds out his arm but Thor doesn’t come right away. Instead he puts the bear next to Clint’s shoulder and squirms around for a bit until he manages to get the cape free from where he has it twisted around himself. His little hands clumsily spread out the cape over Clint, and then he scoots under it, with his head against Clint’s chest, his hair tickling Clint’s chin. Good grief, it’s like snuggling up to a blast furnace.

 

“Dis is nice and warm, Cwint,” Thor says sleepily. Yeah, warm. That’s one way to describe it. Clint’s pretty sure he’ll have heatstroke before morning. He pulls back the cape a little so he can stick one leg out, but it doesn’t help much.

 

It’s not long before the kid’s breathing evens out and he turns into a dead weight on Clint’s shoulder, but Clint can’t go back to sleep so easily, because he’s thinking about the assholes who did this to Thor, and to Bucky too ( _scar tissue. . . fuck_ ), and he can’t help but think they got off easy. A quick death was too good for them. They should have suffered longer for what they did.

 

Clint eases his hand out and picks up his phone from the bedside table. Moving slowly to keep from waking the kid, he awkwardly angles the phone so he can take a picture of Thor’s face, focusing in on the tear-stained cheek and bruise around his eye. Then he texts the picture to Natasha.

 

**Please tell me the people who did this died horrible and painful deaths. I need to know they suffered as much as he did.**

 

Natasha texts back right away, which surprises him. He thought she would have been asleep already, seeing as she had no traumatized kid to soothe.

 

_Nightmares? The thunderstorm woke me up._

 

 **Yes. He keeps waking up screaming. It’s breaking my heart**.

 

There is a momentary pause while the screen shows that Natasha is typing. Clint spends the time stroking Thor’s hair while picturing members of Hydra suffering more and more gruesome deaths.

 

_Wanda tore the man to pieces. I slit the woman’s throat and let her bleed out for over a minute with my boot on her neck. She was awake and aware when Sam put a bullet between her eyes to finish her off. Does that help?_

 

**You always know just what to say to cheer me up.**

 

_:-)_

 

Clint has to take a minute to appreciate the fact that an ex-Soviet assassin has sent him a smiley-face emoji. The only person he would expect it from less would be the OTHER ex-Soviet assassin he knows. While he’s thinking about that, he is mindlessly staring at the picture of Thor’s sweet face. Those little round cheeks and long eyelashes are killing him. And is that a dusting of FRECKLES on his turned-up nose?

 

On pure impulse, Clint texts the picture to Laura, with the caption, **Want another kid?** She won’t get the text until morning, because Laura is the sensible type who goes to bed at a decent—Oh, she responded already.

 

_YES_

 

This is why Clint loves Laura. She starts with yes. She starts with acceptance and love before she even asks any questions.

 

_Who is he?_

 

That’s not to say that she _doesn’t_ ask any questions, however. Just that she starts with yes; she doesn’t end there.

 

**Long story.**

 

_So shorten it._

 

 **It’s Thor**.

 

_Nuh-uh. Thor is like 8 feet tall._

 

**Not at the moment.**

 

_What the hell happened??_

 

**We don’t know exactly. Bruce and Tony are trying to fix it, but it’s going to take a while. Meanwhile he’s gotten pretty attached to me for some reason.**

 

_BRING HIM HERE_

 

Clint snorts, then has to put his hand over his mouth to keep from waking the kid up. Dear god, please don’t let him wake up.

 

**That’s my girl.**

 

_Lady. I’m a lady, not a girl. And when are you bringing him? Tomorrow? What time?_

 

**I can’t bring him right now but maybe later, if he’s like this for a while. We have to hang around here in case Tony has a breakthrough.**

 

_What size does he wear?_

 

Clint folds back the cape and angles the phone to take a wider angle picture of Thor’s disgusting shirt, which he texts to Laura. **No need to worry about clothes. He has a pair of Hawkeye pajamas that he will happily wear day in and day out until they are stiff as cardboard and stink like a homeless man.**

 

_D’awww_

 

 **Don’t you start**.

 

* * *

 

There’s no coffee. It’s four in the morning and Thor is fashioning a trampoline from the bedsheets and there’s no fucking coffee in the apartment.

 

“Cwint! CWINT!! Watch my Bucky Bear!! It can FWY!!”

 

“That’s great, buddy.”

 

A brown and blue blur goes zooming past his nose and lands in the plate of pop-tarts that Clint has just burnt and there NO FUCKING COFFEE. Clint wants to die. That’s a reasonable response, right?

 

He is still stumbling around like a zombie at seven, after having tried and failed to get Thor to take a bath, and tried and failed to get Thor to eat a goddamn vegetable for once, and tried and failed to get Thor to brush his teeth or at least wash his face for the love of god, when there is a knock at the door. It’s Bruce, come to save his life. Clint almost falls at his feet in gratitude.

 

Bruce looks like he just woke up, which is monumentally unfair, but Clint isn’t going to complain, because he says, “Hey, Thor, wanna go to the gym with me?” Bruce is Clint’s new hero. What does Bruce want for Christmas? Because Clint is going to move heaven and earth to get it for him. They should put Bruce’s face on the $20 bill.

 

“YEAH! Wet’s practice fighting!!”

 

“I don’t know about that, but we could play catch.”

 

“Ok. CWINT! Come wif us! We’re gonna pway catch! Bruce! BRUCE! What are we gonna catch? Are we gonna catch bilge’nipes??”

 

“No, a ball. And I think Clint would like to stay here and rest.”

 

For a terrifying second, Clint thinks Thor is going to refuse, but instead he just says, “Ok, Bruce, carry me!”

 

Bruce looks pleased as punch to scoop Thor up and put him on his hip. Ha! Just wait until the walk back when Bruce realizes that Thor weighs about a thousand pounds and his feet are allergic to the floor.

 

“BYE CWINT!” Thor calls, waving energetically over Bruce’s shoulder on the way out the door. “Bruce! BRUCE! I fink we should catch DRAGONS!”

 

“That sounds interesting, Thor, but I think we’d be better off catching a ball.”

 

Clint closes the door and gazes vacantly at the mess. It looks almost exactly the same as it did yesterday, but with an added layer of Pop-tart crumbs and sticky fingerprints. He should probably get started cleaning it up. Yeah, he’ll get right to that, as soon as he rests his eyes for a minute. On the other hand, the mess will just get put back as quickly as he picks it up. So why not let it be? That’s a very good idea, he thinks fuzzily as he crashes facedown on the couch. Let it be. . .

 

* * *

 

Around six that evening, Clint caves and lets Thor watch a “mobie”—well, actually an episode of Dora the Explorer because that is what he has on his Starkpad. He regrets it almost immediately because Thor instantly falls into a trance, staring blankly at the screen with his mouth hanging open, while Dora shouts nonsense in her monotone voice that drives Clint craaaaaazy.

 

But hey, at least he can make dinner, aka heat up chicken nuggets and slice carrots that Thor won’t eat, in peace, right? While he’s opening the package of nuggets, he glances in at Thor and gets a pang of guilt because he’s pretty sure the kid hasn’t blinked once since the show began and there’s a line of drool hanging from his chin. Clint can almost see his brain turning to mush. On the screen, an anthropomorphic map is shouting tonelessly, “I’m the MAP I’m the MAP I’m the MAP!” 

 

Clint slowly backs away into the kitchen and turns up the radio so he doesn’t have to hear it.

 

While they are eating dinner, Clint makes the mistake of asking Thor if he liked Dora. 

 

“YEAH! She’s an espworer! She went on an adbenture wif Boots!” Thor exclaims, and it’s up there in the top five the cutest things Clint has ever seen (all the rest being Goliath’s huge puppy paws). Clint pulls out his phone to record this because it might be good blackmail material later. 

 

“Where did they go, Thor?”

 

“Dey had to go to free pwaces! And she needed my help!” Thor wipes his face with his already filthy sleeve, smearing ketchup across his cheek.

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah! And ‘Wiper fied to ‘teal her backpack! I had to say “‘WIPER NO ‘WIPING!”

 

“Good for you for helping!”

 

“YEAH! She couldn’t have done it wifout MY help!” Thor jumps up from the table and runs to the living room, shouting “COME ON BAMANOS!” at the top of his lungs. Clint winces as he turns down the input volume on his phone.

 

“Hey, Thor, how about some carrots?” Clint calls after him, even though he knows it’s pointless.

 

“No fank you.” Thor leaps onto the couch and starts jumping up and down while throwing his Bucky Bear in the air. “BACKPACK BACKPACK MMM DEWICIOSO!!”

 

Clint stops recording, slowly backs into the kitchen, and turns the radio back up. Thor’s plate is still sitting on the table with three half-eaten chicken nuggets smeared in ketchup. Clint stares at them for a minute, then shrugs, picks one up and takes a bite.

 

_Mmm. . . delicioso._

 


	13. Wion King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda lives up to her reputation as the "Magic Wady". Clint gets no sleep, and Steve is Zazu, of course.

Another night, another nightmare. This time Clint is awakened by the thunder before he hears the screaming, a high-pitched shriek that sets his teeth on edge. _Oh god, make it stop make it stop_. He stumbles into the kids’ bedroom and finds Thor sitting up in the bed, red-faced and soaked with sweat, eyes wide but unseeing.

 

“Thor! Thor, buddy, it’s all right,” Clint says loudly over his wails. “Hey, it’s all right. You’re all right.” He scoops Thor up and the kid just melts into his arms.

 

“Cwint,” Thor sobs in relief. “Cwint, I dreamed the bad peopoh killed my mother. I fought dey were going to kill you too.”

 

Oh, ouch. What the hell is Clint supposed to say? “I’m sorry, buddy. It’s all right, you can sleep in my bed.”

 

“Fank you, Cwint,” Thor mumbles sleepily. “Dat way I can keep you safe.” 

 

By the time they get to Clint’s bed, Thor is already asleep again with his head pillowed on Clint’s chest. It’s not so easy for Clint to go back to sleep because he can’t stop thinking about what the kid must have been dreaming about and it kind of freaks him out. He makes the mistake of burying his nose in Thor’s hair and inhaling deeply. Good grief, the kid’s head stinks so bad Clint has to breathe shallowly through his mouth to keep from gagging. And he’s got sticky spots on his face, and both arms, and even the back of his neck. Bath time first thing tomorrow morning, definitely.

 

* * *

 

Four a.m. There’s no coffee. There’s NO COFFEE. Why does the universe hate him? WHY??

 

* * *

 

After breakfast (“How about some eggs and bacon?” “I want tot-parts!” “Cereal and fruit?” “Top-tarps are good, Cwint. Wet’s eat dose.” SIGH), Clint runs the bathwater and then calls the kid, who is running laps around the living room with Lila’s purple blanket tied around his neck, while making loud explosion noises and shouting random nonsense. 

 

“Thor, you need a bath.”

 

“No, I don’t.”

 

“Yes, you do. You stink.”

 

Thor hugs his Bucky bear and scowls mulishly. “I don’t ‘tink. YOU ‘tink,” he cries, then he tears back down the hallway with the blanket flying out behind him.

 

“Come on, buddy, just take a bath,” Clint pleads to Thor’s receding back. “It’s just a bath. Come on, please.”

 

“No fank you!” Thor calls from the sofa where is busily throwing all of the cushions onto the floor to join the pile of toys. Dammit, Clint JUST picked all those up!

 

Clint feels tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. At this point, after five days of nearly non-stop action, and four nights with almost no sleep, crying seems like a reasonable response to a kid who won’t take a bath, really. 

 

With a deep sigh, Clint drains the bathtub, then flops down in the easy chair and stares blankly at nothing. He’s really trying hard not to give in to the tears when there is a knock at the door. Is it someone coming to save him? Who this time? Nat or Sam are the most likely candidates. Are his eyes red? Will they notice he’s almost in tears? Never mind, he doesn’t care what Nat or Sam think of him, as long as they let him have a break for a few minutes.

 

He opens the door the find Wanda standing there, wearing yoga pants and an oversized hoodie, her hair in a messy bun and a sour expression on her face. In her hand she is carrying an enormous insulated cup with a lid. She’s really the last person he ex— _What is that smell??_ He inhales deeply. Cofffffeeee. . . 

 

Clint feels a little hand gripping the back of his pant leg, and then Thor pipes, “You’re dat magic wady.”

 

Wanda’s lips tighten in what might be an attempt to suppress a smile. “Yes, I’m the magic lady. Would you like to come to the gym with me?”

 

“Will you frow me around?”

 

“I suppose I can do that.”

 

“YEAH! Cwint! Cwint! The magic wady is gonna frow me around!”

 

“Sounds like fun,” Clint says, still distracted by the enormous coffee in Wanda’s hand. Maybe she’ll let him stick his nose in and sniff it. “As long as she brings you back in one piece.”

 

“I will try to do so. Coming, Thor?”

 

Thor steps up to her and raises his arms. “Carry me!” he commands, as usual. Wanda cocks an eyebrow down at him like he is an interesting bug on the bottom of her shoe.

 

“You are capable of walking,” Wanda says. Oh, this should be good. Clint wonders what tricks Thor will pull to get her to pick him up. So far, his wiles have worked on everyone, even Bucky. Clint can’t imagine that Wanda will be able to resist those baby blue—Oh, Thor has put his arms down.

 

“I’m capaboh of walking,” he parrots with a big grin.

 

“Excellent.” Wanda reaches out, and Thor willingly slides his small hand into hers. “Let’s go then.”

 

Clint narrows his eyes at her, but she just gazes back at him innocently. Clint doesn’t see any flickers of red coming from her fingertips, but he doesn’t really understand how her powers work, so who knows? It just seems mighty suspicious that Thor would give up so easily.

 

“Enjoy your free time,” Wanda says. She glances around the destroyed living room, nose wrinkled. Clint follows her eyes—it doesn’t look THAT bad, does it? As Wanda heads out the door with Thor trailing along after her like a puppy on a leash, Clint catches up to them and takes the coffee from her hand. Wanda makes a surprised sort of noise as she grabs for the coffee, but Clint pulls it out of her reach. 

 

“Thank you very much,” he says smugly. 

 

“Thank Natasha. She threatened me with electrocution if I didn’t sign up.”

 

“Sign up?”

 

“Oh. Never mind.” Wanda gives one last, longing glance at the coffee before Thor pulls her out the door. Clint pushes it shut behind them and leans on it. Nat’s got a sign up sheet for babysitting? Clint’s not sure whether to be happy or annoyed at that, but if it gives him an hour of silence, he’ll take it. And with a cup of coffee in his hand, he could totally lay on the couch and watch a movie without going comatose in the first five minutes. Great idea. As he scans the room for his StarkPad, Clint is surprised by a sudden, intense desire to clean up this horrible mess. Scrub everything. Maybe spray some air freshener around. Never thought about that before. That’s a good idea. . . right?

 

While he decides where to start, he takes a sip of the coffee. Syrupy sweet caramel nastiness blech. Oh well, coffee is coffee so he’s going to drink it anyway, just on principle.

 

* * *

 

Clint puts away all the toys, returns the couch to factory specs, loads the dishwasher, vacuums, and even finds some smelly stuff that Laura bought and sprays it around. He’s just wiping down the last counter in the kitchen when there is a knock at the door. When he opens it, Thor trots right in on his own two feet like it’s a completely normal thing.

 

“Hi buddy, did you have fun?” Clint asks as he watches the kid march past.

 

Thor doesn’t slow down, just keeps going down the hall toward the bathroom. “I gotta take a baf!” he says earnestly. “I ‘TINK!”

 

“You do, huh?” Clint swivels his head suspiciously at Wanda, who again puts on that innocent act. Clint’s not buying it. “I thought you weren’t going to do that without consent.”

 

“Do what?” Wanda sniffs the air. “It smells nice in here,” she says without the slightest change in expression. 

 

Clint sniffs too. Yes, it does smell nice. He always thought the air freshener stuff Laura buys was too strong, but now he realizes that it really does smell good. Hey, wait a minute, where exactly did that thought come from? . . . He turns to glare at Wanda, but she just gazes back at him guilelessly.

 

“Did you enjoy my coffee?”

 

“No, it was disgusting,” he grumps. That gets him a smug half-smile.

 

“Good.”

 

* * *

 

Clint doesn’t even bother to put the kid in his own bed that night. He’s just gonna end up in Clint’s bed anyway, so why not start out there? And, thanks to Wanda’s influence, at least he no longer stinks to high heaven. He even agreed to let Clint put his Hawkeye pajamas and the Bucky shirt in the laundry, with the promise they’d be back in the morning. 

 

Aaaand three nightmares later, Thor is a sobbing mess and Clint is nearly in tears himself. He feels like a selfish bastard for wanting just a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, but how is he supposed to keep up with the kid during the day if he can’t even hold his eyes open? But then Thor cries himself to sleep on Clint’s shoulder, and Clint gets a whiff of baby shampoo, that sweet narcotic, and suddenly he wouldn’t trade this kid for the world.

 

* * *

 

Four a.m. 

 

Clint awakens to Thor standing over him with an open permanent marker in each hand and green ink smeared across his forehead. His breath smells suspiciously of play-doh.

 

“CWINT! I FINDED SOME MORE TOYS. I DRAWED YOU A PICTURE!”

 

“On paper?” _Please be on paper. Please?_

 

“WHAT’S PAPER?”

 

 _Fuck_. Clint would trade this kid for an iced Americano with a splash of cream.

 

* * *

 

It’s apparently Sam’s turn, because he shows up at 6:30 and Clint almost falls to the ground and kisses his feet in gratitude. Sam picks Thor up without even being asked and sets the kid on his shoulders. "I like what you've done with the place," Sam says, looking around at the green marker drawings all over the walls.

"Shut up," is the best comeback Clint can think of at the moment. No coffee no sleepie make brain go bye-bye.

“Whee! Dis is fun!” Thor squeals, bouncing up and down. Clint waves bye-bye at him as they go out the door. He has great intentions to go get some coffee in the common room, but the couch has some sort of magnet in it. Clint lays down “for just a second” and doesn’t move until Sam brings the kid back over three hours later. Sam looks exhausted, but Thor wants to “pway wif dat cway.”

 

_Oh, you mean the play-doh? The one that has a bite taken out of it? Why would you eat play-doh when you won’t even eat a fucking apple??_

 

* * *

 

_Group text from Nat_

 

_Nat: It’s Wednesday_

 

**So?**

 

_Nat: Movie night_

 

**Great. Pulp Fiction**

 

_Sam: No. Do you LIKE lightning storms in the middle of the night?_

 

_Wanda: New York wouldn’t survive it._

 

_Steve: Pick something kid appropriate this time._

 

**What, like a musical? How about Annie?**

 

_Steve: That would be perfect._

 

 **God no, I was kidding!**  

 

_Steve: How about the Lion King? Kid-friendly, but fun for everyone._

 

_Tony: A little on the nose, don’t you think?_

 

_Steve: What do you mean?_

 

_Sam: Little golden prince? Dark haired usurper? Exile? Ringing any bells?_

 

_Steve: Huh. I guess I never noticed that._

 

_Wanda: Does that make Steve Zazu?_

 

_Tony: Sam and Bucky are Timon and Pumba._

 

_Sam: I'm Timon, Bucky is Pumba. Bruce is Rafiki_

 

_Steve: Why can’t I be Rafiki?_

 

_Tony: I’m Mufasa_

 

_Nat: No, Clint is Mufasa. Tony, you’re Ed the Hyena._

 

_Tony: Clint is a lion and I’m a hyena?? Romanov, You are what is wrong with this world. The real question is which one of you ladies is Nala?_

 

_Wanda: Actually Odin is Mufasa._

 

_Tony: Geez, Maximoff, way to kill the fun._

 

_Wanda: I’m just pointing out the obvious._

 

_Bucky: I dont know what youre talking about_

 

_Tony: BUCKY BARNES HAS RESPONDED TO A GROUP TEXT_

 

_Steve: Can it, Tony._

 

_Nat: Bucky, you've never seen it?_

 

_Bucky: no_

 

_Sam: That settles it. Lion King it is._

 

**Don’t I get a vote?**

 

_Steve: NO_

 

* * *

 

Thor has at least a million questions about “Mobie night,” most running along the lines of “Will Bucky be dere??” Clint doesn’t dare promise in the affirmative, but he does text Bucky to let him know his presence would be much appreciated. Well, what he actually texts is:

 

**If you don’t show up to Movie night tonight, I will hide in the vent above your bed and shoot an electro-disruptor arrow through your cyborg arm while you’re sleeping.**

 

Bucky doesn’t respond, of course. What the hell did Clint expect?

 

* * *

 

The good thing about “mobie" night: Bucky is already there when Clint arrives, carrying Thor of course because Clint is a sucker for big eyes and a wobbly little voice. Thor immediately demands to sit on Bucky’s “wap”. Bucky gets all flustered as Clint happily hands him over. Natasha has her phone pointed their direction, and a few seconds later Clint’s phone buzzes. That photo’s going into Clint’s favorites.

 

The bad thing about movie night: The way Thor shrinks away and goes all watchful when Steve comes up to say hi. Steve swallows hard, quickly looks away, and chooses the seat on the other side of Natasha instead of next to Bucky where he would normally sit. Damn it, his sad eyebrows are breaking Clint’s heart.

 

The worst thing about movie night: Thor bursts into tears when Mufasa gets trampled, and spends the next ten minutes sobbing uncontrollably into Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky looks bewildered like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands; he finally settles on patting Thor awkwardly on the shoulder while rain pours down outside and the rest of the team all exchange worried glances. Clint feels guilty until he remembers that the adult Thor had almost the same reaction to Fox and the Hound when Tod was abandoned in the woods.

 

But when Hakuna Matata comes on, Thor stops crying and stares open-mouthed at the screen, tears drying on his face. By the time the song is over, the rain outside has stopped and he’s happy again. He spends the rest of the movie snuggled up against Bucky’s shoulder with the corner of the cape hanging from his mouth.

 

Bucky falls asleep before the final fight scene, and phones come out all over the room. D’awww. . . more favorites.

 

The _best_ thing about movie night: The second the movie is over, Thor leaps up, causing Bucky to wake up with a start. While Bucky looks around like he hopes no one noticed he had fallen asleep (HA! There are at least a dozen photos being texted back and forth already), the kid starts hopping up and down, half on the couch and half on Bucky’s ribcage, shouting “I’m the WION KING!” He pulls his lips back into a snarl that completely fails to look fierce, and his tiny fingers curl into claws. “ROWR!” he cries in a high-pitched mockery of Thor’s usual battle cry. Sam scoops him up and hoists him aloft, singing “It’s the CIRCLE OF LIFE!” and tickling him until Thor collapses into a fit of giggles. Clint has to stop trying to take a picture and just watch because it’s so sweet and pure that he wants to hold onto this moment forever. 

 

And then the bubble pops when he notices that everyone is laughing along except Steve, who is standing behind the couch with his hands in his pockets and his eyebrows pulled together like he’s trying not to cry. The reality of the situation presents itself to the forefront of his consciousness (Thor’s whole world is gone! Everything he thinks he knows is a lie! Happy happy fun times!) and Clint finds himself chewing on the inside of his cheek wondering how long they have left before they have to tell the kid the truth and smash his happy little heart to smithereens.


	14. Wego Pawace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor discovers the Lego castle. He has his own ideas about how it goes together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler alert (I guess): My Thor has two eyes. 
> 
> Also, this chapter isn't too exciting. In fact I considered cutting almost all of it, but it has some nice scenes that I couldn't let go of.

* * *

 

Oh goodie, the Hawkeye pajamas and Bucky shirt are back. Gotta get those on right away. Yeah, don’t even bother to go into the apartment first, just strip down to your underoos and change clothes right there in the hallway. Oh, backwards, yeah, backwards is good. And the Bucky shirt on top, of course. 

 

And go ahead and leave your discarded footie pajamas in a heap for your trusted manservant to pick up. No problem whatsoever.

 

* * *

 

Clint wakes up that night to a little hand shaking his shoulder. “Cwint?” Thor whispers. When he pries his eyes open he sees that Thor is sitting up in the bed wrapped tightly in his cape, hugging his Bucky bear. Tears stain his cheeks, and Clint can hear the rain pattering on the windows.

 

“What’s up, pal,” he says blearily, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes.

 

“Did I do somefing bad?” Thor says in a quavery little voice. He sounds so miserable that Clint props himself up on his elbow and pushes a lock of sweaty hair back out of his scrunched-up face. 

 

“No, remember? We talked about this. Nothing the bad people did to you was your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

“No, I mean before. Did I do somefing bad to make my father frow me out, and dat’s why you can’t take me home?”

 

Clint’s stomach does a flip-flop. “What? Why would you say that?”

 

“I had a bad dream dat my father was angry wif me. He frowed me ober the rainbow bridge and a fuck hitted me.”

 

Oh, that sounds. . . suspiciously familiar. Was it a truck or a van? Would mini-Thor recognize the difference? “A—a truck?”

 

“Yes. My father always said if I was bad he would frow me out.” Thor’s voice cracks. “So I fink I did somefing bad but I don’t bemember what it was.”

 

“Oh, buddy. . .” Clint remembers the first time he saw Thor, his devastated face when he couldn’t lift his hammer. It’s the same devastated face he is seeing in miniature right now. “Hey, Thor, come here. . .” Clint opens his arms and Thor dives into them. He’s trembling all over and all his ropey little muscles are tight. 

 

“It’s not your fault, buddy. You didn’t do anything bad,” Clint whispers into his ear until the trembling finally fades and the muscles relax a little. Clint can’t relax, because he’s thinking about what he’s going to say to Steve. They gotta tell this little guy the truth. Yes, it will break his heart, but his heart is already broken. Here he is night after night trying to figure out what he did wrong that made his parents not want him anymore, and isn’t that worse? Steve’s in charge, so Clint’s been biting his tongue so far, but they need to talk about this.

 

When Thor has fallen asleep again, Clint takes out his phone and texts Steve. He knows Steve is probably asleep himself, but if Clint has to deal with this in the middle of the night, then Steve should too, given that it’s his decision to keep the kid in the dark.

 

**Just thought you might like to know Thor just woke up crying thinking his father threw him out.**

 

**He dreamed he did something wrong and his father “frowed him ober the rainbow bridge” and he got hit by a truck.**

 

**He thinks he did something bad and it’s all his fault.**

 

**Now tell me please how that’s any better than him just knowing the truth.**

 

**I’ll tell you: it’s not. What we’re doing to him is wrong. He deserves better.**

 

_Can we talk about this sometime that’s not the middle of the night?_

 

Aha, finally woke him up. Clint’s not sorry.

 

**I don’t have that option. The middle of the night is when he wakes up crying and screaming.**

 

 _I’m sorry, Clint._  

 

**Sorry doesn’t fix it. Just promise me that we will be talking about this soon.**

 

_We have to wait and see what Tony and Bruce come up with. They’re working hard on it. I don’t want to break Thor’s heart if I don’t have to._

 

**Thor’s heart is already broken, Steve. The pieces just haven’t fallen apart yet.**

 

* * *

 

4:06 a.m.

 

Clint stands in front of the coffee maker in the common kitchen and blinks at it, nonplussed. It should be dispensing coffee, that sweet elixir of life, but it steadfastly refuses, and Clint doesn’t understand why. Doesn’t the coffee machine know he NEEDS coffee to survive the tiny whirlwind that has taken up residence in his apartment? Does the coffeemaker hate him now too? WHY DOES EVERYONE HATE HIM?

 

While Clint pleads with the machine, Thor gleefully runs circles around him making truck noises. ZOOM ZOOM!

 

“I’m being PATIENT, Cwint!” he shouts. “I’m being BERY patient for breakfas’! I fink I earned FREE tot-tarps!”

 

“That’s good, buddy,” Clint replies absently. What the hell is wrong with the machine? He gives it a little thump on its side. Nothing.

 

Thor hits his knees and crawls through Clint’s legs, almost knocking him down, then races to the living room, where he leaps from one piece of furniture to the next, roaring like a lion cub.

 

“Good morning, Tiger,” comes Sam’s voice from the direction of the elevator.

 

“RAWR!! I’M THE WION KING!!” is Thor’s response. That’s his response to everything this morning. Clint’s done with that. So, so done. He’s gonna record that and play it over the loudspeakers at three in the morning to punish everyone who voted to watch that stupid movie. 

 

“Well then, good morning, Simba,” Sam responds far too cheerfully. “Is the floor made of lava? That’s what I used to play.”

 

There is a momentary pause, then Thor cries, “CWINT! The fwoor is WABA!”

 

“That’s great, bud.” _Coffee. Please just dispense the coffee. Please? It’s literally your one job._

 

Sam’s arm reaches over his shoulder and pushes the power button on the machine. “It works better if you turn it on,” he says drily. “You ok?”

 

Clint blinks at the machine, which is now burbling away. “Yeah. Not quite awake.”

 

Sam takes a chipped Ironman mug from the cupboard. “The kid seems full of energy this morning,” he says, looking back at Thor who is throwing couch cushions across the floor and leaping from one to the next, shouting "WABA WABA WABA!".

 

“Yep. Every morning. Why are you up so early?”

 

“Steve seems to think four a.m. is the perfect time to take a run. Every goddamn morning.”

 

“Bucky doesn’t go with him?”

 

Sam barks out a laugh. “He said he tried to get Bucky to go but Bucky told him to go fuck himself.”

 

“Steve said that?”

 

“Well, he whispered the last part.”

 

“Bucky is a wise man.”

 

“Yeah, well, I’m about there myself. Nothing good happens at four a.m.”

 

“Don’t I know it.”

 

As he pours the coffee into Sam’s cup, and then his own, Clint has an idea. A wonderful awful idea. Now he just has to pitch it to Steve. Shouldn’t be too hard. Just remind him that he owes Clint a big favor to make up for all the middle of the night wake ups.

 

* * *

 

**Text to Steve: I hear you run.**

 

 _Yes, I run. Just got back, in fact_.

 

From the living room there comes the sound of shattering glass. Clint is about to run in there when he realizes it’s just Legos, so he sits back down on the kitchen stool. Legos are good. Nathaniel can keep himself entertained for hours with Legos, so they should hold Thor’s interest for at least a few minutes while Clint makes plans with Steve. 

 

**You run at 4 every morning.**

 

_Yes, it’s the perfect time to run. Not much traffic, still cool enough, get to see the sunrise. It’s the best._

 

Clint feels a little nauseous. There is never a perfect time to take a run, and even if there was, 4 a.m. is definitely not it.

 

**Want a little shadow with you on your run?**

 

_What, you? I don’t know if you could keep up._

 

**No, god no, not me. I’m not suicidal. Thor needs to burn off some energy or I’m gonna die.**

 

_Nat’s sign up sheet isn’t working?_

 

**Not enough. And I notice you haven’t shown up yet.**

 

Even though Steve had been responding right away, at least a minute passes before Clint’s phone buzzes again.

 

_He doesn’t want to hang out with me, Clint._

 

Oh. Ouch.

 

**Well, then, going for a run would be perfect because Sam will be there. He’ll love it. Come on, Steve. Help me out here.**

 

_Yeah, ok, we can try it. Tomorrow morning ok?_

 

 **God yes. I might kiss you**.

 

_I’d prefer you didn’t._

 

Good, one down and one to go. Now he just has to get Thor to agree to go running with Steve. Clint peeks into the living room to where Thor has been quiet for almost ten full minutes now, and discovers him sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor surrounded by a sea of Legos in every color of the rainbow. He’s got several pieces of Lila’s Pretty pretty princess castle (in purple and three shades of pink!) gathered in front of him and he’s trying to figure out how to put them together, with his tongue stuck firmly in the corner of his mouth.

 

“Hey, buddy, how’s it going?” Clint asks, picking his way through the minefield of sharp-cornered bricks.

 

“I fink dese pieces fit togeder, see?” Thor holds up two pink parts of turrets. He’s got them put together backwards, at least from what Clint can remember that it’s supposed to look like. “Dis wooks wike a pawace. Can you help me?”

 

“Um, sure. . .” Clint searches the piles of legos for the directions, but only finds half of one page, and it’s not even the first page. Pink and purple Legos are all mixed in with the rest of the bricks scattered all over the floor. Finally he spots the piece that forms the base of the castle. “Here, this goes on the bottom. Stick those pieces on there.”

 

As Thor pushes the pieces of turret onto the base, Clint says nonchalantly, “Oh, by the way, I’ve got something fun planned for you tomorrow.”

 

Thor’s eyes light up with excitement. “What is it?”

 

Clint takes the base and adds another purple brick to the turret. “Going on a run with Sam and Steve,” he says, watching Thor’s face out of the corner of his eye. Thor’s expression turns guarded and his lower lip tucks into his teeth.

 

“I don’t fink ‘Teve wants to hang out wif me,” he says. Good grief, are these two comparing notes behind the scenes or something?

 

“He says he wants to. He’s afraid you don’t want to hang out with him.” Clint adds another turret, this one pink, to the castle.

 

“I neber said dat.” Thor frowns at the piece, detaches it and moves it to the center where it sticks up higher than the others.

 

“I know, pal. Look, it’ll be fine, all right? Steve’s really a nice guy. But you have to run, ok? They’re not going to carry you.”

 

“Ok, I will fy it, Cwint. I will run wif 'Teve. Den he will wike me.” Thor attaches another turret to each side of the castle. It looks very different from the way Clint remembers the picture on the box, but Thor seems to have his own ideas on how it should go together.

 

“Steve already likes you. And it’s Sssss-teve,” Clint says, running his finger down his arm. Thor carefully copies him.

 

“Sssss-teve. Did I do it right?”

 

“Yep, that’s right, buddy.”

 

Thor runs his finger down his arm again. “Ssss-teve. Sssss-teve. I gotta say it right. ‘Teve will wike dat, right, Cwint?”

 

“Yes, Ssss-teve will like that.”

 

“Ssss-teve.” Thor attaches another turret to each side and sets the castle carefully on the coffee table, apparently satisfied. “I gotta get up earwy tomorrow morning so I’m ready for ‘Teve and Sam,” he says in a very serious voice.

 

_Oh, god no. What have I done?_

 

* * *

 

Tony shows up at 9-fucking-15. _That’s not morning, Tony. And why did you sign up for the respite care team if you were just gonna take the kid for a 15 minute walk around the building?_

 

Clint says none of these things. He’s about to get snarky when he notices that the bags under Tony’s eyes have bags. 

 

“How are things coming?”

 

Tony glances at Thor, who is still bouncing in his arms. “We’re working on it. I’ll let you know if we have a breakthrough.”

 

“BREAKFROUGH ON WHAT?”

 

“Just a little project. Nothing to worry about,” Tony assures the kid, patting him awkwardly on the back.

 

Thor’s brow furrows in thought for a second, then he says, “You’re ‘till fying to fix the bridge?” 

 

“Um. . . Yeah. We’re working on it, but might take a while.”

 

“Dat’s ok, Tony. I don’t fink my father wants me back anyway.” Thor squirms his way down from Tony’s arms and zooms into the living room, where he either starts shattering glass, or dumping out all the bins of Legos again by the sound of it. Tony sort of blinks at Clint, who shakes his head.

 

“He’s trying to figure out why no one has come looking for him. Leads to lots of existential crises in the middle of the night.”

 

“Damn. I thought I had the market cornered on messed-up father-son relationships,” Tony says quietly.

 

“I think Thor could give you a run for your money on that one, Tony,” Clint says, mouth twisted. “Thor’s theories so far are either his father didn’t want him so he told his mother he was dead, or he was bad so his father threw him out. And that last one’s not far from the truth, so there’s that.”

 

“Seems like it might be better just to tell him what’s really going on.”

 

“Great. Yeah. Good idea. Maybe you could convince Steve of that.”

 

“I’ve given up on trying to convince Steve of anything. We get along much better that way.” Tony raises his voice and calls into the living room, “See you around, Simba.”

 

“Bye, Mufasa!” Thor calls back. _Little Traitor_.

 

* * *

 

_Text from: Laura_

_How are things going?_

 

**Ok. Not too bad.**

 

_Having some bad nights?_

 

There is a link attached, and when Clint opens it he finds a news article from the New York post headlined “Wild Nighttime Weather.” and a subheading, “Broadway premiere of Frozen interrupted by power outage from lightning.”

 

**A little. Lots of nightmares.**

 

_Bring him here. No nightlife to disturb. We could use the rain._

 

**I’ll think about it.**

 

The next text contains a picture of Nathaniel glaring at the camera (so basically his usual expression). _Nate is thrilled about the idea of having a new brother. Can’t you tell?_

 

 

* * *

 

The rain wakes Clint up at one in the morning. No thunder, no lightning, no screaming, just raining hard enough that the windows are rattling. He rubs his face, looks around through half-open eyes, and discovers he is alone in the bed.

 

“Thor?”

 

No response. There is a bit of light coming from the hall, so Clint heaves himself out of bed and stumbles his way to the living room, where he finds Thor sitting in the semi-dark, cross-legged on the floor facing the Lego castle. He’s got his cape wrapped around him and his arms wrapped around his bear, his back is rounded and his shoulders are hunched.

 

“Hey, buddy,” Clint says softly, settling down next to him, “what’s up?”

 

“Dis is my pawace,” Thor says in a wistful voice, eyes locked on the Lego castle. Oh, of course. Clint never saw the palace on Asgard with his own eyes, but he remembers that Bruce sketched it for them once. “My bedroom is right dere.” Thor points to the turret on the left, about halfway up. “Woki’s room is right next to mine. He sweeps in my room sometimes when he gets ‘cared at night.” Thor suddenly stops and shoots an anxious glance at Clint. “My father doesn’t wike dat. He finks we're too big to be cared. Onwy babies cry all the time. Do you fink dat’s why he doesn't want me?”

 

 _Ouch_. “I don’t know about your father, but I want you, Thor,” Clint assures him.

 

“Fank you,” Thor says, but he continues to stare at the palace. Clint understands—the only acceptance that matters is the one he’ll never get: from his own father.

 

When Clint was a kid, being told, “Stop crying, ya pussy, be a man!” by the men who were beating him, he vowed he would never raise his sons that way. And here's little Thor, different culture, different planet even, being fed the same poisonous BS. Clint feels a sudden surge of anger on Thor’s behalf, and on behalf of all those grown-up little boys everywhere who were made to believe that their feelings were _wrong_. Bucky with his unreachable silence. Steve’s sad eyebrows. Tony’s sarcasm that he wears like armor. Even Loki, so wounded by his father’s perceived rejection that he nearly destroyed himself and Earth with him. . . Damnit, Clint doesn’t _want_ to feel sympathy for Loki.

 

Clint slips his arm around Thor’s tense shoulders, but the kid doesn’t relax. “Do you fink I’m too big to get ‘cared at night?” he asks in a tremulous little voice.

 

“Come here, buddy,” Clint says, pulling Thor into his lap. “I think it’s perfectly normal to be scared, Thor. Your feelings are just your feelings; even sad or scared feelings—they’re not bad, and you’re not bad for having them.” Ok, so he stole this little speech practically word for word from Sam, but Thor doesn’t have to know that.

 

Thor curls in against him, with his cheek resting against Clint’s chest. “Dat’s what my mother says.”

 

“Then your mother wa—is a very smart lady, kiddo. And I know she loves you very much.”

 

“Den why doesn’t she come get me?”

 

Thor’s little heart is broken, and Clint’s is breaking for him. There are no words, nothing he can say to put the pieces back together. All he can do is hang onto him and try to make it through the pain together.

 

* * *

 

3:37 am

 

Clint opens his eyes to find Thor’s face an inch from his nose.

 

“It’s morning, Cwint!” Thor crows. “Sam and ‘Teve are coming dis morning. Sssss-teve.” Thor grabs Clint’s hand and tries to pull him out of the bed. “Come on, I gotta get ready! Dey’re coming soon. Get up, Cwint! We gotta eat breakfas’.”

 

“Ok, ok, I’m coming.” Clint allows himself to be dragged to the kitchen, where he starts fixing the Pop-tarts while Thor dances around him impatiently.

 

“Are dey ready?”

 

“Not yet, pal. If you want it faster, you should make it yourself.”

 

“I don’t fink dat’s a good idea, Cwint,” Thor says dismissively. 

 

“Well, then maybe you could go get dressed while I’m making breakfast.”

 

Thor frowns down at his Hawkeye jammies, which are already filthy again. “I _am_ dressed, Cwint.”

 

God, not this again. Clint is determined to win this time. “Those aren’t clothes, those are pajamas, remember? You can’t wear them outside.”

 

“But I wike dem!”

 

“Nope, doesn’t matter. If you don’t change into real clothes, you can’t go for a run with Sam and Steve.”

 

“I can put dem ober dese cwothes,” Thor says, nodding like that’s a brilliant idea.

 

“No, you have to change.”

 

Thor’s eyebrows pull down and his lip pokes out. “I don’t want to change,” he whines, “I want to wook wike you.”

 

“Well, I guess I can call Steve and tell him you’re not going.”

 

“No! I want to go!”

 

“Then I suppose you’ll have to change your clothes.”

 

There is a long moment where Thor stands stubbornly and considers his dilemma, and Clint keeps his face neutral while he prays, silently and fervently _please just go change your clothes please please please so I can go back to bed please please please._

 

Finally Thor says reluctantly, “Ok, Cwint. I will change my cwothes. You can help me.”

 

Good enough. Clint’s gonna call it a win. That’s Clint: 1, Widdoh Four: oh, about a million. “Ok, after breakfast then.”

 

* * *

 

After Thor gobbles down his Pop-tarts, Clint helps him choose more suitable clothes for running. “Sweatpants and a t-shirt are almost as comfy as Hawkeye pj’s, right?” 

 

“Nuffing is as comfy as my Hawkeye pajamas, Cwint. I will put dem on as soon as I get back home.” 

 

Aww. . . the kid considers the tower home. Clint’s not sure if that’s good or bad. Maybe a little of both, he thinks as he fights with the stupid high top sneakers. Thor is wiggling all over the place in excitement and anxiety, which isn’t helping.

 

“We gotta hurry up, Cwint. I hafta be ready when Sam and ‘Teve get here.”

 

“This would be easier if you’d hold still, kid.”

 

“I am holding ‘till.”

 

No, he is _not_ , but Clint finally gets the shoes tied anyway, then hands Thor the Captain America hoodie, which he tries to put on upside down, and then backwards, and then sits down and starts trying to pull the sleeves on his legs until Clint steps in. He holds the jacket up the right way, but Thor just cocks his head at it.

 

“Is dat a cwoak?”

 

Has the kid never seen a hoodie before? Well, no, of course he hasn’t, so he of course he has no idea how it works. Clint crouches down in front of Thor and turns him around. “Hold out your arms.”

 

Thor looks mystified, but he does as Clint asks and even holds mostly still while Clint threads his arms through the sleeves and straightens the shoulders. “There, see? It’s goes like that.”

 

Thor frowns down at himself. “Is dis ‘Teve?”

 

“Ssss-teve. Yes, that’s his shield.”

 

The frown deepens. “Is dat ok?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Will he be mad dat I’m wearing his cwoak?”

 

“It’s a hoodie, not a cloak. And no, it’s not his, it’s yours. He won’t mind if you wear it.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Yes, of course. He’ll like it.”

 

Thor runs his fingers over the shield emblem on the front of the hoodie, with his lower lip between his teeth. “I don’t fink ‘Teve wikes me.” His voice is matter-of-fact, resigned. Clint wants to record it and force Steve to listen.

 

“Oh? Why is that?”

 

“He wooks mad at me.”

 

“Not mad, remember? He’s sad, and he feels guilty.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because. . . because he’s the leader. It was his job to keep you safe and he couldn’t do that.”

 

“He wasn't the one who hurt me. The bad peopoh did dat. He’s not re’ponsiboh.”

 

Clint sighs. “Yeah, I know that, Thor, and Steve does too, but knowing it and believing it are two different things. He likes you, Thor. I promise. Ok?”

 

“Ok.”

 

“Good.” Clint zips up the hoodie and pats Thor on the shoulder. “They’ll be here in a few minutes. Why don’t you play while I clean up from breakfast?”

 

“Ok, Cwint. Fank you.”

 

As Clint goes back into the kitchen and starts wiping the crumbs off the counter, he can hear Thor in the living room, jumping from one piece of furniture to the next, except this time he’s not roaring like a lion; instead he’s practicing “Ssss-teve” over and over. “I’m going running wif ‘Teve! SSSSS-TEVE!”

 

Thor’s excitement lasts right up to the moment there’s a knock at the door, and then he suddenly appears at Clint’s side, grabbing for his pantleg.

 

“It’s ok, buddy, it’s just Sam and Ssss-teve, remember?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You ok? Still want to do this?”

 

“Yes,” Thor says, but his eyes have gone observant again, and he edges behind Clint’s leg as he opens the door for Sam and Steve. Sam immediately crouches down to Thor’s level while Steve hangs back.

 

“Hey, buddy!” Sam says, far too enthusiastically for 4-fucking-a.m.

 

“Hewwo, Sam,” Thor says automatically, but he’s looking at Steve.

 

“Hello, Thor.”

 

“Hewwo. . . Ssss-teve.”

 

Clint’s pretty proud of the kid for saying Steve’s name right, but Steve doesn’t say anything until Clint clears his throat and nods at him meaningfully. “Oh. Good job saying my name right.”

 

Thor’s whole demeanor changes with the praise: his eyes light up, his face splits in a huge smile, his shoulders straighten, and he even steps out from behind Clint’s leg. 

 

“Ready to go for a run?” Sam asks, and Thor nods while hopping up and down in excitement.

 

“Cwint says you can’t carry me.”

 

“Nope, the whole point is for you to get some exercise.”

 

“Can you carry me until we get outside?”

 

“Hmm. . . how about just until we get on the elevator?”

 

“How about until we get off the ewebator?”

 

Sam snorts in amusement. “Yeah, ok, Thor. Until we get off the elevator.” As he carries Thor out the door, with Steve trailing after, Sam says, “You are a better negotiator than I expected, kiddo.”

 

“Yeah, I’m a good ‘go-she-a-ner,” Thor exclaims. “What does dat mean??”

 

As soon as they are gone, Clint falls back into bed. It’s so nice and quiet. He’s gonna get so much sleep. It’s gonna be awesome. It’s gonna be so great, if only he can get his stupid brain to shut off. But it won’t. Instead it keeps presenting him with problems, both real and potential.

 

  1. They need to tell Thor THE TRUTH, but Steve won’t agree so they’re basically under a gag order, but Thor is falling apart every night and Clint is getting no sleep, and the explanations the kid is coming up with are really sort of worse than the truth, so they need to tell him the truth, but. . . going around in circles here. Shut up, brain.
  2. What if the science bros can’t figure this out and Thor is like this for an indefinite amount of time? Will he stay with Clint basically forever? Should Clint take him to the farm, where life is simpler? Laura is enthusiastic about the idea now, but how will she feel in fifty years? How long will he be a kid? Oh, boy, another circle.
  3. What happens in the future when Clint and/or the rest of the team is sent out on a mission? Who will take care of the kid then? They can’t exactly take him with them, can they? He can’t lift his hammer (thank god!), and he can’t control his powers. Will all of New York flood out if he doesn’t learn to control himself?



 

Speaking of self-control. . . Clint realizes it has started to rain hard outside. The sun is just coming up and it was clear a few minutes ago, but now the sky has suddenly gone dark and it’s dumping buckets. Shit. Better get up and get dressed, cuz nap time is over.

 

 


	15. Wego Fain facks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's brilliant ideas don't always work out so well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to RenneMichaels for the phrase "overripe kid funk." I have borrowed it for this chapter, and I'll put it right back where I found it, as soon as Widdoh Four takes a bath.

* * *

 

Clint’s waiting by the door with towels when they get back, all soaked to the skin, Sam is carrying Thor, whose sweatpants are now muddy in the knees. Steve limps along behind. His track pants are ripped, and his knee and elbow are bloody where all the skin has been scraped off.

 

“What happened?” Clint asks, trading the towels for an armful of shivering kid.

 

“He ran circles around us. Literally. Steve tripped over him,” Sam says as he hands a towel to Steve and starts drying himself off. Steve uses his towel in a futile attempt to wipe up the blood that is dripping onto the carpet from his knee.

 

“I’m sorry, ‘Teve,” Thor says contritely.

 

“It’s fine, Thor. And I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to knock you down.”

 

“Dat’s ok, ‘Teve. You’re not re’ponsiboh. It’s not your fault.” It’s clear to Clint that he’s talking about more than just this morning’s fall, but Steve of course misses the subtext entirely.

 

“Thanks, Thor,” Steve says wearily. “See you later.” And he limps off with Sam, leaving Clint holding a very subdued Thor.

 

* * *

 

‘Subdued’ doesn’t last long, which is both good and bad. Probably the people of New York appreciate the end of the rainstorm, but Clint mourns the end of the quiet. By 7:00 a.m., most of the playdoh is ground into the carpet, and Thor has gotten into Lila’s glitter, the herpes of craft supplies, and left a shimmering trail down the hallway and across the living room. That shit ain’t never coming out. One time Lila got some in Nathaniel’s hair and they were still finding bits of it stuck to his scalp months later.

 

Thor is making so much noise Clint almost doesn’t hear the knock at the door. Luckily Thor hears it and screeches “BUCKY IS HERE!” as he throws himself against the door while desperately trying to open it.

 

Lo and behold, it IS Bucky, who nods at Clint and comes right on in without waiting for Clint to invite him, like he belongs there, which is. . . kind of awesome, actually. _Yes, come on in, Bucky Barnes. ARE YOU MY FRIEND NOW?_  

 

“HI BUCKY!!” the kid shouts, as if he’s not literally standing three feet away from him.

 

“Heya, squirt. Wanna go to the gym?”

 

“You signed up twice?” Clint asks, surprised.

 

Bucky pushes back his hair and squints at Clint with both eyes. “Huh? What the hell are you talking about?”

 

“Oh. Never mind.”

 

Thor throws up his arms to be picked up. “YEAH! WET’S GO PWAY, BUCKY! I WANNA FROW DAT BATTOH AX!”

 

“Uh. . .” Bucky looks to Clint, who shakes his head. “That’s. uh. Too dangerous, kiddo,” he says, scooping Thor up and setting him on his shoulder.

 

“PWEEEEASE?” Thor wheedles as they go out the door.

 

“Nope.”

 

Just before he closes the door behind them, Clint hears Bucky say in an undertone, “Course you can, squirt. Just don’t tell your nanny.”

 

_Couple of little shits, those two_. But Bucky is giving Clint a break without Nat even threatening him, so Clint is legally obligated to ignore it.

 

-0-

 

Clint still can’t sleep, so he decides to go haunt Tony and Bruce in the lab and gets way more than his daily dose of science mumbo-jumbo that threatens to cure his insomnia then and there. _Goddammit, Tony, just tell me whether you’re going to be able to make this work or not._

 

But Tony and Bruce seem to be just as frustrated as Clint is, so he decides to let them be. They have their heads together and don’t even seem to notice when he leaves anyway. He visits the common room next, where he pours himself a cup of coffee that he practically has to chew, which means that Steve probably made this pot.

 

He just gets back to his apartment in time for Bucky to return, with Thor on his shoulders. The kid still has all his limbs and there is no visible blood, so Clint decides he’s not going to complain about the battle ax. It’s probably good practice anyway, given that Thor has an ax-hammer waiting for him that, based on the fact that the Hunt for the Cure seems to be going nowhere fast, he’ll have to learn how to wield at some point.

 

“Hey, guys, come on in,” Clint says as he opens the door, and Bucky stops just inside the door and sets Thor down in the only clean spot in the Lego ocean.

 

“Bucky, pway wif me!” Thor cries, clinging to Bucky’s metal hand. 

 

Clint’s about to step in to rescue him when Bucky says, “Yeah, ok.” Seriously? The big scary assassin dude is gonna sit down and play Legos with the kid? Yep, guess so, because Bucky sits down on the floor next to Thor and picks up a Darth Vader mini-fig. “Who’s this guy?” he asks Thor, who shrugs.

 

“I fink dat’s a dwarf from Nidabewir.”

 

“It’s Darth Vader,” Clint can't help but put in, which gets him two blank stares. “Star Wars?”

 

“Never heard of it.”

 

“Yeah, Bucky and me neber heard of dat. What’s ‘Tar Wars?”

 

“Never mind. Carry on.” Clint escapes to the kitchen before he can get sucked into a discussion about Star Wars with a hundred-year-old supersoldier and a pint-sized alien prince. He already tried to explain it once to the adult Thor, and it almost broke him. 

 

It’s not even ten a.m. and Clint is hungry for lunch already, not too surprising since he got up before the ass-crack of dawn and was too busy chasing Thor around to eat any breakfast of his own. As he gets the chicken nuggets (the ones shaped “wike dragons!” “No, they’re dinosaurs.” “Wooks wike a dragon!” “Ok, whatever.”) out of the freezer for lunch, he can hear Thor and Bucky talking in the living room. He really shouldn't eavesdrop, so he’ll just—oh, who is he kidding? Of course he’s gonna listen. He takes a few quiet steps closer to the door so he can hear them better.

 

“Bucky, is ‘Teve your friend?”

 

“Yeah. Gimme another piece.”

 

“Dis one?”

 

“Yeah.” There is the sound of Legos clicking. 

 

“What are we making?”

 

“Train tracks.”

 

“Fain facks?”

 

“Sure. Fain facks. There, that’s done.”

 

Curious, Clint peeks around the corner and sees they are both on their knees on the floor, and Bucky is pushing the train around the tracks making a little “choo choo” sound while Thor watches with interest. Clint pulls out his phone and takes a picture, then hightails it back into the kitchen before they catch him. He is dumping bagged salad into his bowl when he hears Thor’s voice again.

 

“Did you tell ‘Teve what the bad peopoh did?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Don’t want him to be sad.”

 

“He’s already sad.”

 

“No he ain’t.”

 

“Yes, his eyes are sad. Cwint said he wos’ his friend. Did he wooze you, Bucky?”

 

“Well. . . sort of. But he got me back,” Bucky says. “Here, you try the train.” It’s an obvious attempt at diversion, but Thor isn’t so easily distracted.

 

“Cwint says sad feewings aren’t bad.”

 

“He does, huh?”

 

“Yes. I fink you should tell ‘Teve about the bad peopoh. Dat will make him feel better.”

 

Bucky makes a noise that’s half-way between a chuckle and a snort. “I don’t think it works like that, squirt.”

 

“I fink it works wike dat. My mother says if you share happy feewings, you have twice as much happy. If you share sad feewings, you onwy have half as much sad.”

 

“Your mother was—is a smart lady.”

 

“Cwint said dat too.”

 

“Then I guess Clint is smart too,” Bucky says.

 

“So will you tell him? 

 

“I’ll think about it.”

 

Holy crap, it’s a toddler therapy session. Thor actually managed to convince Bucky he should _think_ about talking to someone, which is better than Clint did.

 

“Do you want to ‘tay for wunch? You can have some of my dragon nuggets.”

 

“Dragon nuggets?”

 

“Cwint says dey are chicken, but dey wook wike dragons. Dey are yummy wif ketchup.”

 

“Um. . . I gotta go.”

 

“So you can talk to ‘Teve?”

 

“. . . Never mind, I guess I can stay.”

 

As Clint gets out another plate for Bucky, he reflects that Thor is a much better strategist than they give him credit for, because that was brilliantly played.

 

* * *

 

Clint decides to take Thor to the gym again in the evening to try to wear him out, which totally backfires. He gets so wound up that he’s still running circles around Clint at fucking midnight. Maybe he can get Cho to prescribe a sedative? That worked pretty well for Nathaniel when he had to stay still after breaking his leg at age two. He texts the idea to Laura, and she texts back a gif of Disappointed Steve shaking his finger at the camera, taken from one of those PSA’s he did a few years back. Whatever, Laura, you’re not here. YOU DON’T KNOW.

 

Thor finally crashes, literally, in the middle of the floor mid-sprint, and immediately falls fast asleep. Clint folds his arms and contemplates the Godlet of Thunder sacked out half in the hallway with his hair sticking up, and his filthy pajamas, and his face streaked with ketchup, and a truck in each hand. He’s not sleeping; he’s recharging his batteries. Well, maybe at least he’ll sleep in tomorrow, right?

 

* * *

 

Nightmares. Oh god, the nightmares. The sobbing. The lightning and thunder and rain. Please just make it stop, Clint begs the universe. The universe is indifferent. The nightmares do not stop.

 

* * *

 

4 a.m.

 

The kid does not sleep in. He’s up early once again, raring to go. Clint’s not gonna lie—he cries a little when he sees what time it is. Would it kill the kid to sleep in for a few minutes? Would it??  _No it would not._

 

Clint blames Nat for what happens next. Well, it’s not actually her fault she gets sent out on a mission and doesn’t have time to maintain the babysitting sign up. That’s more Steve’s fault, but Clint doesn’t know any of that. All he knows is that the morning comes and goes, and _no one comes to pick up the kid._

 

Clint doesn’t have the energy to take him to the gym, so they spend the morning in the apartment, which in retrospect is probably a bad idea. Thor makes so much noise! He is the Energizer bunny and Clint. cannot. deal. At home he has three kids, but Laura is always there and she is much better at keeping the kids in line. She just gives them THE LOOK and suddenly they are all perfect angels. When Clint attempts THE LOOK on Thor, he just laughs and pulls at Clint’s eyebrow trying to make it go back down.

 

“You wook funny, Cwint!” he crows, then goes right back to running windsprints down the hallway and crashing into the wall. Zoom! Boom! Zoom! Boom!! Thump! Random mouth noises!

 

Clint drops into the chair and closes his eyes. A suspicious crash comes from the direction of the bedroom, but there is no accompanying thunder, so Clint ignores it. His eyelids have little lead weights on them and he cannot get them to open. He’s not just burning the candle at both ends; he’s got no candle left to burn.

 

The random mouth noises get louder as Thor speeds back down the hallway toward the living room. “Cwint! CWINT!”

 

Clint thinks about responding, knows he needs to respond, but he doesn’t have the energy to move, much less form a coherent sentence. Sleep. He needs sleeeeeep.

 

“CWINT! PWAY WIF ME!”

 

Pway? Wif? What do those words mean? Are those even words? Right now they’re just background noise. Clint’s not even processing anymore.

 

Suddenly a weight lands on his legs, startling him awake. Wha—? “WET’S PWAY!” Thor shouts exuberantly, patting Clint’s cheeks with sticky fingers. 

 

Clint’s patience is all gone bye bye. Nope, all done. He grabs Thor’s hands and pushes them away from his face. “Can you please just be quiet for one goddamn minute!” he snaps.

 

Thor freezes, eyes wide, and then his little face crumples. All that joy and exuberance just _poof_ vanishes in an instant, replaced with a heartrending mix of hurt and fear and hopelessness. _Shit_. 

 

“Thor. . .” Clint starts to reach for him, but Thor silently scrambles backward off his lap and takes off toward the hall. His bare feet slip on the carpet; he catches himself with one small hand on the wall and keeps going around the corner and out of sight. Outside the sky has gone dark and rain lashes against the windows.

 

Clint leans forward and scrubs his hands through his hair in frustration and despair. _Goddammit_. He screwed this up again, and now all of New York is suffering along with Thor. Clint should have known what would happen. He’s had Sam’s little crash course on childhood trauma and how it affects the brain. He knows that it applies to himself, and Steve, and Nat, and Wanda, and even Sam himself, but he never thought about applying it to Thor, who always seemed like he had the perfect childhood. Golden prince in a golden palace on a golden planet, but beneath it all Thor is a traumatized little kid terrified of being rejected, just like the rest of them.

 

With a sigh, Clint heaves himself out of the chair and goes to where he knows he will find Thor, hiding in the cupboard in the bathroom like last time. He doesn’t hear anything at first, but when he crouches down next to the cupboard, he can hear a quiet sniffle coming from inside.

 

“Hey, buddy,” Clint says softly.

 

There is no response, so Clint opens the cupboard to find Thor curled up inside hugging his knees, face streaked with tears. His big, fearful eyes search Clint’s face from top to bottom. Clint knows what he’s looking for, because he remembers being that kid, checking the emotional temperature to see if it was safe. The problem is, Clint is still annoyed, and he knows it shows in his eyebrows and mouth. Judging by Thor’s guarded expression, he has spotted it.

 

“Come on out, pal,” Clint says, and Thor scrambles to obey. His shoulders are down and his head tips forward, but he’s looking up at Clint through his lashes, and the fear in his eyes turns Clint’s stomach. He has never wanted his kids to be afraid of him. Respect yes, maybe even admire, that would be nice thank you. But fear, never. Clint reaches out and takes both of Thor’s small hands in his. 

 

Thor blinks down at their hands. His eyebrows are knitted together and his chin is wrinkled up.  “I’m sorry, Cwint,” he says with a sniffle. “I know I’m ‘posta be quiet, but it’s hard to bemember. My father says “BE SIWENT! And Woki waughs at me. He neber gets in foubo. He’s neber too woud.”

 

“Look at me, buddy,” Clint says gently. He waits until Thor’s troubled eyes meet his before continuing. “You’re not in trouble. Just—just try to be a little quieter, ok?”

 

“Ok, Cwint, I will fy.”

 

“Good boy.”

 

Clint releases Thor’s hands and he swipes at his face with the silver sleeve of his Bucky shirt, then trudges silently back toward the living room, where he picks up one of the trucks and starts pushing it slowly along the floor. He’s being quiet now, no longer crying and apparently playing, so Clint goes into the kitchen to try to find something to eat and maybe spend just a few minutes catching up on all the news he’s missed over the past week plus.

 

He sits down with an apple and his tablet and starts reading the headlines.

 

**Wet and Wild! What’s up with the weather lately?**

 

Hmm. That’s. . . probably not good.

 

**Flash flooding in Queens**

 

Yeah. Definitely not good.

 

**Thunder and lightning. Is Thor to blame?**

 

_Shit_.

 

**Thor off-world, Captain America reports**

 

Riiiiight.

 

The next link is a video clip of an interview with Steve, where he somehow completely fails to make eye contact with anyone for over two minutes while spinning a bunch of bullshit about Thor being “called away for important business and we have no idea what’s up with the thunder and lightning but it’s definitely not due to the god of thunder we don’t even know what you’re talking about” until Tony steps in to cut him off.

 

Bless him for trying anyway. 

 

The next time Clint looks up, an hour has passed and he realizes that it is still raining outside. There’s no lightning or thunder this time, no wind, just steel gray skies and a steady, soaking rain. Earlier that morning it had been sunny, so it can only be Thor. He hasn’t heard a peep out of the kid for over an hour, so why is it still raining? 

 

Clint goes to the entrance to the kitchen and peeks out into the living room, where the kid is still sitting in the same spot, but he’s not playing with the trucks anymore. Now he’s taking apart the Lego castle and slowly setting the pieces one by one into the box, one-handed because his other arm is wrapped around his bear with his nose buried in the soft fuzz at the top of its head.

 

Clint leans against the wall and watches for a minute, while the rain continues to pour down outside. He feels like shit for yelling at Thor, even though it did get him an hour of peace and quiet. It’s not fair to expect a kid to be calm and quiet when he’s been stuck in the tower for over a week. Adult Thor would be going stir-crazy too if he couldn’t get out and move. If only the weather weren’t so crappy, they could go out to the park or something. . . Wait a minute—the weather is responding to Thor’s mood, right? Which means if Thor is happy, the sun will come out and they can go outside and enjoy it, which will lead to more happy, and more sunshine, and so on. So, not only are they NOT stuck in the tower, they actually owe it to the people of New York to go to the park and bring the sunshine with them. The kid can burn off some energy and maybe even sleep tonight, which would be awesome. And maybe Clint can even rest for a bit on one of the benches while he plays, which would be even awesomer.

 

Going over to where Thor is sitting, Clint crouches down next to him and says, “Hey, buddy, do you want to go to the park?”

 

Thor’s face is guarded. “What’s a park?”

 

“You know, a playground.”

 

The kid still stares at him blankly, so Clint clarifies, “A place to run around outside. Things to climb on. Swings and slides, stuff like that.”

 

Now Thor’s face lights up. “Reawwy?!”

 

“Really.”

 

The kid bounces to his feet like he’s got a spring in his butt. “YEAH!” And hey, lookie there, the sun has come out.

 

Thor is so excited about going to the “pwayground” that it doesn't take much to convince him to change into jeans and a t-shirt, with the freshly laundered Captain America hoodie on top, which Thor isn’t too sure about, but Clint manages to convince him. Clint wants to put the nasty Hawkeye PJs and Bucky shirt in the laundry, but Thor carefully folds them and puts them on “his” side of the bed.

 

“I can put dem back on wayter,” he says earnestly, “after we pway at the pwayground.”

 

Great. Perfect. Why not? At least he’s dressed. With a little coaxing, Thor lets Clint comb his hair, as much as is possible given that he hasn’t had a bath in _how many days??_ and then he even chews on a toothbrush for a minute, which is progress, even though his breath still smells like kitty litter.

 

Clint grabs a couple of lollipops (pilfered from the infirmary) on the way out the door just in case he needs something to distract Thor from thinking too hard about the fact that they are in a new place with new people. He’d prefer not to be caught out in a rainstorm if at all possible.

 

“Friday, we’re going to the park,” he says as he locks up. He’s thinking they’ll have to go to Central Park. Bryant Park is closer, of course, but they don’t have a playground. Thor needs a place to climb and swing and slide and just enjoy being active outdoors, and BONUS! If he’s worn out enough, he might even sleep tonight.

 

“Have fun,” comes Friday’s voice.

 

“Fank you, Friday!” Thor calls back, waving toward the ceiling. “I’m going to pway outside wif Cwint! We're gonna cwimb and swide!” Hmm. . . Maybe a little clarification is in order. Thor doesn’t seem to understand that Clint is going to be resting while he plays. But it’s too late, because the kid is halfway down the hall already.

 

Thor is so excited he forgets he “needs” to be carried, at least until they get to the elevator. He runs down the hall ahead of Clint, calling, “Come on, Cwint, we gotta go outside and PWAY!” Clint lets him push the down arrow to call the elevator, but as soon as those doors open, Thor takes a little step back and holds up his arms to be picked up. Clint obliges, because he wants to keep Thor happy so the sky will stay clear, and also because he still feels a little guilty for yelling at the kid.

 

By the time they get to the lobby, Thor has his arms wrapped tightly around Clint’s neck. Dark clouds are gathering directly above. Time for a little distraction to keep the rain at bay. “Hey, look what I have here,” Clint says, holding out a lollipop. Thor pulls off the wrapper and sticks it in his mouth, and suddenly the sun breaks through again. Thanks, Dr. Cho!

 

As soon as they get outside, Thor’s head starts swiveling back and forth as he takes it all in, wide-eyed. Of course, he’s only been outside once before, and that was before sunrise. They say New York is the city that never sleeps, but four a.m. is the closest the streets ever come to being deserted—most of the nighttime crowd has headed home to sleep it off, and the morning crowd is just waking up.

 

Now, however, at almost ten in the morning, the sidewalks are full of people hurrying to and fro, and the streets are choked with traffic going nowhere fast. It’s New York at it’s New Yorkiest, and no matter how long he’s lived there, Clint still doesn’t feel quite at home. Give him wide open skies and room to run anytime.

 

“WOOK, CWINT!” Thor suddenly shouts, pointing down the street, “It’s a FUCK!! A BIG FUCK!!”

 

Up and down the sidewalk, heads turn their direction. “HA! Ha! A TRUCK! Yes, that’s a TRUCK!” he says loudly, putting his hand over Thor’s mouth before he sees the boy coming the other way on a scooter.

 

Central Park is a bit of a long way to walk, particularly carrying a kid who is getting heavier by the minute, but Clint’s not sure he wants to be stuck on a subway if Thor freaks out, so walking it is. Thor stares at everything open-mouthed and bug-eyed, and it’s so ridiculously adorable that Clint feels obligated to stop and get him some mini-donuts. By the time they get to the park, his new clothes are covered in powdered sugar and chocolate.

 

“Cwint! My hands were ‘ticky but I wicked dem and now dey’re all cwean!”

 

Lovely. Just lovely.

 

As soon as they turn the corner and Thor sees the play structure crawling with kids, he goes completely silent. His arms go back around Clint’s neck and his face ducks into Clint’s shoulder. Clint discovers that he was wrong—his hands are still sticky, but hey, at least the donut residue smells nice. It almost drowns out the overripe kid funk in his hair.

 

“It’s ok, Thor. It’s just kids playing at the park,” Clint reassures him, but Thor only burrows deeper into his shoulder and his knees clamp hard around Clint’s waist, refusing to let Clint put him down. With a sigh, Clint sits down on a bench and rubs his back. “Ok, we’ll just sit here for a while.”

 

After a few minutes of sitting quietly, Clint feels Thor’s head turn a little bit. He’s obviously watching the kids play, but Clint just continues to rub his back without calling attention to it.

 

A few minutes later, Thor slides off Clint’s lap to stand between his knees, with his back against Clint’s stomach and his head under Clint’s chin. His hands still hold onto Clint’s arms around him, but he is looking around with interest at all the activity, and even almost smiles when he sees a girl running up a slide.

 

Finally Clint says, “Ready to go play?” and Thor nods.

 

“Yes, Cwint, wet’s go pway,” he says, tugging on Clint’s arm. No, that’s. . . not the plan. The plan is for Clint to sit back on the bench while Thor plays on his own, or, even better, with other kids, and gets nice and worn out.

 

“I’m too big for the playground, Thor. It’s for kids.”

 

“Dose big peopoh are pwaying,” Thor points out, gesturing toward a father catching a little boy on the slide. “Come on! I wike to pway wif you, Cwint. You’re my fab’rit.”

 

_Geez, kid._ Ok, just for a few minutes. “What do you want to play?”

 

“What’s dat?” Thor says, pointing to the swings, where a girl is sailing back and forth with her coattails flying. She has little puffball pigtails and big brown eyes and the cutest little nose. Thor’s head follows her forward and back with an awed expression, eyebrows raised, his mouth open slightly and turned up at the corner. _Oh, pal, you are serious trouble, aren’t you?_

 

“It’s a swing,” Clint replies.

 

The girl gets to the pinnacle of the arc, leaps out of the swing, and lands on her feet. Thor is practically jumping up and down with excitement. “I want to fy dat ‘wing!” he cries. Of course he does. If it looks dangerous, this kid is all over that like flies on shit.

 

Clint allows himself to be dragged to the swings, then helps Thor figure out how to sit in it, and how to hold onto the chains. When he tries to teach the kid how to pump the swing, Thor demands, “Push me!” All right, for a minute. Clint’s not planning do it for long, but as soon as he gets going, Thor starts to giggle and bounce on the swing. “Dis is FUN!” he shouts. “Push me higher!” and it’s so cute that Clint pushes him harder until the chains are practically horizontal. And then, just as the swing reaches the highest point, Thor jumps out. He is much higher than the girl was, and Clint’s heart practically stops until he lands, rolls, and pops back up, covered head to toe in woodchips.

 

“You ok, pal?” Clint asks, but he needn't have worried, because Thor immediately runs to the rock wall on the play structure and starts to climb like a little monkey. “All right, I guess you’re ok, then.”

 

“I’m cwimbing up dis! Cwint, cwimb wif me!”

 

“I won’t fit up there,” Clint says, looking up past Thor to the top of the rock wall where it turns into a kid-sized tunnel. “How about if I go sit down and watch for a while?”

 

“OK CWINT!” Thor calls, his voice echoing from where he has disappeared inside the tunnel. As Clint sits down on the bench, Thor reappears at the other end and runs full-tilt down the slide. Clint is about to tell him to slide down on his bottom when he realizes that will require a demonstration, which means he would have to get up, and he really doesn’t want to do that. Running down the slide isn’t so bad as far as rule violations go, right?

 

Thor is heading back around for another go at it when the little girl approaches him, the same one that he was so smitten with on the swings. Thor stops in his tracks and stares at her like a deer in the headlights.

 

“What’s your name?” she says.

 

“. . . Four.”

 

“No, not how old you are. What’s your name?”

 

“Four!”

 

Shaking her head, she marches over to Clint, where she puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head up at him. “Is your little boy named Four?” she demands. The woman on Clint’s right (who has to be her mother—they have the same sparkling eyes) chortles into her hand.

 

“it’s Thor, not Four,” Clint says.

 

The girl spins around and marches back to Thor. “Your daddy says your name is Thor.”

 

“Dat’s what I said,” Thor says, perplexed. “What’s your name?”

 

“I’m Elizabeth.”

 

“Wizabef?”

 

“No, E-liz-a-beth.”

 

“E-wiz-a-bef.”

 

Elizabeth makes an exasperated noise. “No!”

 

“LIbby, be nice,” her mother calls to her.

 

“Ok, fine, you can call me Libby. I live on West 88th Street. Where do you live?”

 

“Asgard.”

 

“No, I mean what street do you live on?”

 

“In the pawace,” Thor clarifies, but the girl just wrinkles her nose at him and marches back over to Clint.

 

“He says he lives in a palace,” she says in an affronted tone.

 

“Um. . . he likes to pretend. We live just a few blocks over.”

 

Libby makes a _hrumph_ noise and goes back to Thor. “Your daddy says you live a few blocks over.”

 

Thor looks confused for a minute, then finally says, “He’s not my daddy.”

 

“Then who is he?”

 

“He’s my—my. . . he’s my CWINT!”

 

There is a moment when they just stare at each other in mutual non-comprehension. Clint is afraid the girl will walk away, but finally she just shrugs and says, “Wanna play with me?”

 

“Ok! What should we pway?”

 

“Let’s play pirates!” Libby grabs two sticks from under a nearby tree and hands one to Thor. Then she lets out a battle cry and takes off running, with the stick above her head. Thor watches her, dazed, for a minute, then he too lets out a Simba roar and tears off after her, grinning from ear to ear. Yes, perfect. _Now just run around like that for about three hours until you drop from exhaustion._

 

“How old is he?” asks Libby’s mother as they both watch the kids zoom around.

 

“Oh, um. How old do you think he is?”

 

“Maybe. . . five?”

 

“Nope, he’s four. He’s just big for his age.”

 

“He’s cute. He looks like a little Greek god.”

 

“Norse, actually,” Clint says, because sometimes the filter between his mouth and his brain has bigger holes than it should.

 

“Oh, I get it, because his name is Thor, right?”

 

“Oh. Uh. Yeah, right. That’s what I meant. Sure.”

 

Time to shut his big yap before he gets them both in trouble. Clint closes his eyes, leans back and turns his face up to the sun. Going to the park was a fantastic idea, just the best idea ever. They get to enjoy the outdoors, Thor can work out some energy, the entire borough of Manhattan can bask in the sunshine (YOU’RE WELCOME, EVERYONE), and Clint can get some much-needed rest. It’s perfect all around. Nothing can possibly go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Infinity War trailer looks awesome, but where's Hawkeye??


	16. Breave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot Mini-Thor doesn't know, like the fact that he can affect the weather. Now Clint's gonna have to help him learn to control it quick before he accidentally destroys New York. Oops.

* * *

 

Clint should’ve knocked on wood or something because it is of course at that precise moment that everything goes spectacularly to hell. The first indication is a loud crack of thunder and then a flash of lightning that overpowers the sun. By the time Clint can see again, the sky has turned gray as wet concrete and it’s suddenly pouring buckets. SHIT SHIT SHITSHITSHITSHIT

 

Clint leaps up and looks around frantically for Thor. Which way did they go? The sound of the thunder seemed to come from the left somewhere, but where? How far away?

 

The girl’s mother shouts, “ELIZABETH!!” All around him parents are calling for their kids and running for cover, but Clint is running TOWARD the epicenter of the storm, pressing the panic button on his phone as he goes. He almost runs into Libby, who is screaming something so fast that Clint can’t make it out.

 

“Slow down!” he orders her, “What happened?”

 

“SOMEBODY GRABBED THOR!” she shouts over the downpour.

 

“Who?? What did they look like??”

 

“A man and a lady dressed in black.”

 

“Did they have a vehicle?”

 

“A van, I think it was blue,” she says. Despite the fact that she is trembling, her face looks more angry than scared.

 

Libby’s mother comes running up, and Clint hands the girl off to her, just as Sam lands on the street in front of them, with Steve in tow, and right behind them come Tony with Bucky, who must have been pretty panicked to let TONY carry him. 

 

“You’re Ironman!” Libby cries, wide-eyed, “And you’re CAPTAIN AMERICA! And Falcon! And. . .” She gives Bucky the once over. His soaked, stringy hair is hanging in his eyes; he’s wearing black jeans and a black shirt, with a black hoodie thrown over the top. At least his arm is covered, but his silver hand is clearly visible, which makes a nice contrast with the M249 SAW Paratooper that really completes his terrifying ensemble. The boy knows how to accessorize.  Libby takes a step closer to her mother. “And who are YOU?”

 

“Shhh,” her mother says, putting her hand over the girl’s mouth.

 

“Someone grabbed Thor,” Clint fills them in. “Man and a woman in black, with a blue van. The girl saw them.”

 

“Which direction?” Steve asks in his Steviest voice, looking at Libby, whose eyes go huge as she immediately snaps to her full height.

 

“That way,” Libby reports. Her arm jerks out and points to the left past the play area.

 

“Ok, Thank you. Get under cover.” 

 

Libby and her mother take off running, Libby looking back over her shoulder wide-eyed and mouth hanging open, while Steve starts issuing orders. “Tony, can you get Friday checking surveillance? Sam, you fly over West 59th down to 9th. They’re going to have to get off this island somehow, and my money’s on the Lincoln Tunnel. Bucky—“

 

Steve is interrupted at that point by a lightning strike about a block away, followed almost immediately by a loud clap of thunder, and the screech of tires on wet pavement.

 

“Or we could just follow the weather,” Tony points out, as he and Sam take to the skies. Bucky and Steve take off running in the direction of the lightning, and Clint follows, but he’s not as fast as two super soldiers so he quickly gets left behind. Within about thirty seconds, everyone else is out of sight and he’s running along through the rain that’s pouring so hard that, even though he’s got perfect vision, he can hardly see ten feet in front of him, let alone a block away. Dammit! He slows to a stop and wipes the rain out of his eyes but it doesn’t help. He doesn’t even know which way they went, and he’s got no comm, so he can’t talk to them, so where. . .

 

Suddenly he hears gunfire coming from his left. Not the Paratrooper that Bucky had been carrying, but a different semi-auto that Clint doesn't recognize. Immediately another lightning strike from the same direction nearly blinds him. He starts running again, slips on the wet sidewalk and almost falls. Lightning strikes again, this time so close he can hear the sizzle-snap of the electricity hitting the pavement. Clint zigzags to avoid getting hit and keeps running through the pouring rain. 

 

Before he has gone half a block, Steve emerges from the mist in front of him, and right behind him is Bucky, carrying Thor in his left arm and the Paratrooper in his right. Thor’s face is hidden in Bucky’s shoulder and his hands are tightly pressed over his ears. Both are drenched and filthy and spattered with blood, and when they get closer, Clint can hear Thor’s muffled screams.

 

“What the hell happened?” Clint shouts over the rain, which isn’t letting up even though the danger is apparently over. Bucky just shakes his head grimly and clutches Thor tighter in his arms. Clint spots a trio of bright red scratches on the back of Thor’s neck. The sleeve of his hoodie is ripped and his elbow is scraped and bloody. His skin is sort of gray and his hair looks. . . singed? Bucky’s does too. Were they struck by lightning? 

 

“It’s ok, pal,” Bucky says with his lips against Thor’s ear. “It’s ok, you’re safe.”

 

The only response is a flash of lightning almost directly overhead and a scream from Thor. He is clutching the front of Bucky’s hoodie so hard that his little fingers have turned bone white and the fabric is practically ripping. “You have to calm down, pal,” Bucky pleads, “take a breath, come on.”

 

Thor shakes his head and shrieks, “NO NO NO NONONO!!” The wind is tearing awnings off buildings, and thunder and lightning keep crackling all around them. It’s like being in a popcorn popper. In the distance, over the wail of the wind, there is a higher-pitched wail of a siren, New York’s finest on their way, only a little late. Dealing with them is going to be a huge pain, because how the hell are they going to explain this?

 

“Let’s get Thor inside,” Steve commands. “Tony, you take him. Sam, you take Clint. I’ll wait here for the police.” Even though Clint’s not sorry to miss it, that would be interesting to watch Captain Fucking America lie to the police:  _No this is a totally natural phenomenon and we have no idea why lightning is following us around yeah that’s weird._ At some point they might start to wonder why he’s so interested in the sidewalk and bushes and buildings and sky that he never LOOKS AT THEM.

 

Tony gives Steve a skeptical glance and opens his mouth to argue, but then a deafening clap of thunder seems to change his mind. “Come here, little guy,” he says, reaching for Thor. When he tries to take Thor from Bucky’s arms, the kid kicks and squirms and reaches desperately for Clint instead. It’s everything Clint can do not to take him, but he knows Tony can get him home much faster.

 

“No, go with Tony,” Clint says, trying to catch a flailing foot before he kicks Bucky in the chest.  A bolt of lightning lights up the sky, practically blinding them, and strikes a light pole less than a meter away. Overlaid with the thunder that immediately follows is Thor’s piercing shriek of terror.

 

Steve, who is closest, mutters, “Shit!” and jumps back. “Ok, never mind on that. Bucky, just take him and go. Clint, you go with Sam.” 

 

“You go too,” Tony yells to Steve. “I’ll handle the police.”

 

“No, I’ve got this. You guys just go.”

 

“Don’t be stupid. I’m a much more accomplished liar and you know it.”

 

“Good grief, I can’t believe you’re arguing with me about this!”

 

Clint can’t quite believe it either. They’re standing in the middle of a fucking thunderstorm, they’re all soaked to the skin and about to be killed by lightning, and Tony and Steve STILL can’t work together. Thor may have been turned into an actual toddler, but the two of them are emotional toddlers sometimes.

 

“I can’t believe YOU’RE arguing with ME about this,” Tony spits back. “Since when do you like talking to the police?”

 

“Since I’m the leader!!”

 

“You’re both acting like children,” Sam shouts over the roar of the wind. “Tony, stay. Steve, come with us.” When they all just stand there huddled together against the wind and rain, he barks, “Move!” and everyone hops to, including Steve, thank god.

 

“Hang onto me,” Sam shouts into Clint’s ear over the wind.

 

“No front pack?” Clint shouts back, catching hold of the straps on the front of Sam’s harness.

 

“Didn’t have time to grab it.”

 

“Good! I wouldn’t have used it anyway,” Clint yells as they go airborne. God he hates this part. He hates feeling his stomach drop as Sam does his roller coaster in the sky thing. He hates how his eyes sting from the wind. He hates the bugs in his teeth. People were just not meant to fly, especially through tantrum-induced thunderstorms. Below him he can see Bucky running almost as fast as Sam is flying. Thor’s face is upturned toward the pouring rain, mouth open in an obvious wail that is inaudible above the sound of thunder booming all around them. One white-knuckled hand grips Bucky’s shoulder, and the other reaches out desperately toward Clint.

 

Clint shouts, “It’s ok, Thor! I’m right here!” but in vain because there’s no way the kid can hear him over the storm.

 

When they get back to the building, he thinks Sam is going to head up to the helipad to land, but instead he swoops down, leaving Clint’s stomach behind, and touches down right next to the front door in the middle of a huge puddle, just as Steve and Bucky arrive with Thor, who is still screaming. Bucky’s eyes are wide with something that might be panic, as Thor reaches out desperately for Clint.

 

“Take him,” Bucky barks, thrusting the kid at Clint, who can’t help but comply. Yeah, that’s definitely panic. Clint puts a mental checkmark next to another emotion for Bucky. What is that, three now? Dude is on a roll.

 

As soon as Thor is in Clint’s arms, he stops screaming, but he’s still soaking wet and trembling all over. When another bolt of lightning strikes just outside the doorway, Thor lets out a shriek and tries to climb inside Clint’s jacket. Suddenly Clint _gets it_ , why the fear is getting _worse_ instead of better: Thor is afraid of the lightning and thunder, which creates a feedback loop—the more afraid he is, the worse the storm gets, which scares him more, and so on until New York is underwater. Shit. He needs to get this kid inside and calmed down NOW before he floods the city.

 

“Thor, you’re safe,” Clint says urgently, heading for the door to the building. Bucky opens it for them, and all five of them stumble into the lobby like drowned rats washing up onto shore. The security guard at the desk just blinks owlishly at them as they hurry to the elevators. Now that Thor is inside, he has lapsed into an eerie silence, but that isn’t much better. He’s still trembling violently, his shoulders are jerking up and down from noiseless sobs, and his eyes have gone disturbingly blank.

 

When they reach Clint’s floor, Clint is sure Sam, Steve and Bucky will stay in the elevator, but instead they walk them to the door, with Steve trailing two steps behind looking stricken. Clint decides Steve will have to handle his own emotions because he doesn’t have the time or energy to deal with that right now. He’s got his hands full, literally and figuratively, just trying to bring Thor back from the emotional cliff.

 

“You ok, buddy?” Sam says warmly, trying to catch Thor’s eye. Thor is looking right through him, doesn’t acknowledge him at all. When Sam pats his shoulder, Thor flinches. Sam bites his lip and cuts his eyes to Clint. “Want me to hang around?”

 

As much as Clint would like the company, it doesn’t look like Thor would appreciate it, so Clint shakes his head. “We’ll be all right.” Yeah, that’s a crock of shit. They’ll be lucky if the subway tunnels don’t flood today. Sam folds his arms and goes into what Clint thinks of as his counselor mode, the one where it’s like he’s looking right into your head. Clint follows his gaze around at the group and tries to see what he sees: Thor’s blank stare. Bucky’s jaw muscle jumping from grinding his teeth. Steve standing awkwardly off to the side by himself. What conclusions is Sam drawing? Damned if Clint knows; he’s too distracted by the heat of Thor’s body pressed against his side contrasted with the freezing rainwater dripping down the back of his neck.

 

“All right,” Sam says finally, “come on, Steve.” When Steve doesn’t move, Sam gently but firmly takes his arm and leads him away. For a moment Steve looks back over his shoulder like he wants to say something, but then he just shakes his head and squelches off down the hall, leaving a trail of soggy size 13 footprints next to Sam’s size 12s on the carpet.

 

Bucky continues to stand next to Clint’s shoulder, so silently that Clint can hear the soft snicking of gears as he opens and closes his metal fingers. He’s still grinding his teeth and staring straight ahead unblinking. Yeah, _emotions_. Here’s another one to add to Clint’s checklist, he supposes, but he's not sure what to call it. Whatever it is, it’s definitely intense. So intense that it’s scaring Clint a little bit, because he thinks maybe some of that intensity is directed toward Clint, given that it’s Clint’s fault that Thor almost got snatched again.

 

Suddenly the metal hand is moving toward Clint’s face. Clint can’t help his involuntary flinch but his hands are busy holding Thor so he’s not able to get his arm up to protect his head from the blow he’s sure is coming. However, he’s quite surprised when instead of punching him in the face, the arm wraps around his back and those metal fingers, which can choke the life out of a person with barely any effort, lightly squeeze his shoulder. Before Clint’s astonished brain can quite register anything beyond _HOLY SHIT BUCKY BARNES IS HUGGING ME_ the arm drops and Bucky takes a step back. He’s looking at Thor now and his intense gaze has softened a little.

 

“It’s ok, squirt,” Bucky says, gently brushing his flesh hand over Thor’s hair, but Thor’s traumatized expression does not change. Clint’s not even sure the kid heard him. Either he’s been deafened by the thunder just like the rest of them, or he’s too messed up to focus on what’s happening around him. Yeah, probably the latter. Shit. Clint wishes he had more information about what exactly happened out there when he got left behind. Too bad no one seems in a hurry to tell him. 

 

After a moment of silence, Bucky pulls his hand back, turns and walks away without another word, leaving Clint standing in the hallway in a puddle, holding a silent, shivering, dripping wet Thor. Well, it’s not like someone else is going to show up and take care of this kid, so they might as well go inside and get cleaned up, right?

 

A bath would warm the kid up as well as get him clean, so Clint heads directly to the bathroom. “I’m going to run the water so you can take a bath, ok Thor?”

 

Thor: 

 

“Here, I’m just going to set you on the counter.”

 

Thor:

 

“Ok, yeah. Here you go.” Clint carefully unwraps Thor’s legs from his waist and sets him on the counter, but when he tries to disentangle himself from the kid’s arms, Thor clings to his sleeve with bone-white fingers. There’s no way Clint can pry the fingers off, and he can’t reach the faucet from here, so. . .

 

“How about the side of the tub instead? Is that ok?”

 

Thor:

 

“That way you can still hold onto me while I start the water. I promise I won’t leave you. Ok?”

 

Thor still says nothing, just breathes raggedly while he stares past Clint’s left shoulder, so Clint picks him up and moves him to the edge of the tub. Thor’s fingers clutch Clint’s sleeve when he leans away to start the water, so Clint puts a steadying hand on his knee, but Thor’s grip doesn’t loosen. The kid might be silent, but outside the thunderstorm has not let up. Lightning flashes outside the bathroom window and Thor flinches. His grip tightens on Clint’s sleeve at the thunder that follows.

 

“The thunder and lightning can’t hurt you,” Clint soothes. “You’re safe in here, I promise.” Maybe the lightning can’t hurt them now, but it definitely can hurt anyone still trapped out there. Kids trying to get home from school. First responders trying to repair the damage. People trapped in subway cars as the water rises. Shit, Clint’s gotta get this kid calmed down before he destroys the city. “A bath will feel good. You’ll be nice and warm and safe, ok,” he says desperately while he turns off the water one-handed. “The water is ready. Do you want me to stay?”

 

Thor’s breathing picks up and his panicked eyes finally focus on Clint’s face. Another bright flash fills the window, and the lights in the room flicker. Another flinch from the kid. Shit.

 

“Ok, I’ll stay. I won’t leave you,” Clint says immediately. “It’s ok. Let’s get those wet clothes off, ok?”

 

When Thor still doesn't respond, Clint scrubs a hand through his hair and carefully forces his face into a calm expression. “Ok, I’m going to take the hoodie off.” He starts working on the zipper, but it’s broken and won’t unzip. The whole hoodie is a mess—ripped sleeve, seam at the shoulder coming undone, splotched with mud and quite a bit of blood. It’ll have to be thrown away. Clint gives up on the zipper and instead pulls Thor’s unresisting arms out of the sleeves and slides it off over his head, then the shirt, which is ripped at the collar. Thor’s shivering little body is a mess too—scratches on his neck and upper arms, a bruise darkening on his left cheek, and several more dotted across his abdomen, chest, and back. Clint presses his lips together and breathes slowly through his nose, although on the inside he is trying to put together a timeline of what must have happened. Obviously he was grabbed, but he just as obviously he got away and he’s safe now, so why hasn’t the storm died down?

 

Clint reaches out to put a reassuring hand on Thor’s scratched-up shoulder, and the kid flinches away with a little whimpering sound. His breathing is shallow and uneven, his lower lip wobbles and his hollow eyes are brimming with tears. Blank. _Traumatized._ Just like the first night they brought him back to the tower. He was doing so much better, seemed comfortable and at home, and here they are back to square one.

 

“I want my mama,” Thor says in a small, pain-filled voice. He blinks, and the tears overflow down his face. “Why doesn’t she come get me?”

 

“I’m so sorry, Thor. I’m so sorry.” Biting his lip, Clint lays a gentle hand on Thor’s cheek and thumbs away the tears that are tracking through the dirt, soot, and blood. “Let’s get you in the tub. That will help.”

 

Thor doesn’t resist as Clint finishes getting him undressed and puts him in the warm water. He sits hunched, silent and shivering while Clint shampoos his hair and washes his face. Even when Clint cleans the scratches and bruises on his arms and back he says nothing. The only sound is the pouring rain being driven against the windows by the wind, punctuated by thunder.

 

Finally Clint decides the kid is clean, or at least as clean as he’s going to get. There are a few singed areas on his temples, and the scrape on his elbow still has bits of dirt ground into it, but the blood and mud are gone. The scratches don’t seem too deep, which leads Clint to believe that most of the blood on his clothes didn’t belong to him. “Ok, pal, stand up and let’s get you out of there.”

 

Thor doesn’t move, just continues to sit shivering in the gray water, so Clint says,”I’m going to help you get up. You’re going to feel my hand touching you.” He hopes that if he informs him of what’s going to happen, it will help him relax, but Thor still flinches when Clint picks him up by the armpits and lifts him out of the tub. 

 

Wrapping the kid in a towel, Clint carries him to the bedroom, where he picks up the filthy Hawkeye pajamas messily folded on the bed. “Here you go, buddy,” he says brightly, holding up the pajamas and Bucky shirt. Thor just looks through them, dull-eyed. His little shoulders jerk up and down with each stuttering breath, and his teeth are chattering. Gotta get this kid dressed and warmed up quick; maybe that will make the storm die down. 

 

It takes a while to get Thor dressed, because the kid is. not. helping. Ever tried to put pajamas on cooked spaghetti? Yeah, like that. But Clint has a hard time getting mad at him when he keeps finding new bruises and scratches with every limb he threads through a sleeve or pantleg. At least they all appear fairly superficial, now that Clint has gotten a better look at them. The bleeding has stopped and some of the redness has gone down, although the bruise on his cheek has deepened to an almost purple-black. It’s a shame because the shiner had finally completely healed just a couple of days ago.

 

After Thor is dressed, Clint wraps him up in the cape and tucks him under the covers with the bear next to him and an episode of (shudder) Dora playing on the Starkpad. Clint’s still soaking wet and freezing. He really really wants to take a shower and get in some dry clothes, but even with the video going, Thor still has a fistful of his sleeve and won’t let go. So Clint eases off his shirt and leaves it on the bed next to Thor, who doesn’t seem to notice right away. By the time Thor looks over at the sleeve like he’s wondering why there isn’t an arm in it, Clint is dressed in dry sweatpants and a hoodie. He slips into the bed next to the kid and slides an arm around his shoulders, and Thor goes back to staring blankly at the screen, where Dora is shouting some nonsense about needing to help a fish get back home. Thor seems calm, but outside the storm is raging just as hard as ever. 

 

Clint’s phone vibrates, and when he works it free from his hoodie pocket, he discovers a text from Laura.

 

_Everything ok? Just saw Tony on the news, and now they’re saying a funnel cloud touched down in Chelsea._

 

Shit. Clint’s heart is pounding because someone could get seriously injured or killed if Thor can’t get this under control. It’s not like any of the rest of them can do it—they are all at the mercy of a traumatized preschooler who is trapped in a whirlwind of terror himself.

 

**Any injuries?**

 

_No, just minor property damage. What’s happening?_

 

 **Someone tried to snatch Thor at the park. He’s a little freaked out, i guess. I don’t know all the details**.

 

_You guess?_

 

**He’s sitting here perfectly still, but his eyes look like no one’s home, and there’s a massive thunderstorm happening outside. I don’t know what to do.**

 

_Try the senses countdown. It worked with Cooper._

 

Oh, the senses countdown! It seems so long ago now that Cooper had such terrible meltdowns, but Clint still remembers how to do it.

 

**Good idea. I’ll try it.**

 

“Hey, buddy? Let’s try something.”

 

Thor doesn’t say anything, but his hollow eyes swing away from the screen to Clint’s face. Another bolt of lightning flashes outside the window, which causes Thor to flinch again. Clint shuts off the Starkpad and sets it aside, and Thor doesn’t object.

 

“Thor, I want to teach you something. It’s called the senses countdown. It’s for when you feel upset and want to calm down.”

 

Thor:

 

“Ok, it goes like this.” Clint holds out his hand, palm up, fingers spread. “Put your hand on top of my hand.”

 

Thor just blinks at him, so Clint picks up Thor’s small hand and lays it palm down on top of his larger one. “Like this, ok? Now take a big breath and say ‘five’ when you breathe out.”

 

Thor:

 

Clint’s not sure if the kid’s even processing right now, but he’s gotta keep trying, for the sake of the city. “Like this. I’m going to put my hand on your stomach. Take a deep breath and make your stomach move. You’ll see my hand move.”

 

Thor looks down at Clint’s hand on his stomach. His shoulders are still jerking unevenly, but Clint gets the sense that he’s trying. It’s almost a full minute before his breathing evens out a little, and then Clint feels Thor’s belly move in and out under his hand as he finally takes a deeper breath.

 

“That’s good, pal. Now do it again and say ‘five’, like this. Watch my stomach.” Clint takes a slow, deep breath through his diaphragm and says “five” on the exhale. After a moment, Thor takes a breath and says “five” in a small, raspy voice.

 

“Good boy. That’s for five things we see. We’ll take turns saying something we see. I’ll go first. Take a breath before each one.” Clint looks around the room and says the first thing his eyes light on. “Door.”

 

Clint takes a deep breath and he feels Thor do the same, then Thor tightens his arm around the Bucky Bear and whispers “bear.”

 

“Good. That’s very good. Now breathe.” They both take another slow, even breath. Thor’s doing better at that now, so Clint takes his hand off his stomach, then says “pillow.”

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

“Your hand.” 

 

Clint feels Thor’s small clammy fingers rub tentatively against his palm, a tiny connection, a slender lifeline back from wherever Thor is floating, lost. Clint gently lays his hand on Thor’s head and strokes his still-damp hair. _Come back to me, buddy. Come back._

 

. . . Breathe. . . 

 

Clint finishes step one with “Scooter.”

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

“That’s good. You did a good job with that. Now we put one finger down and say ‘four’ on the next breath.”

 

Thor complies, a little more easily this time. His next breath is steadier, and maybe it’s Clint’s imagination, but the wind seems to have died down a little.

 

“That’s for four things we feel. Remember to take a breath before each one. I’ll go first.” Clint closes his eyes and focuses on physical sensations, grounding himself as well as the kid.

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

“Tag in my shirt,” Clint starts off.

 

Thor rubs his fingers on the edge of the cape and says, “Bwanket.”

 

Clint slides his fingers through Thor’s hair, soft as spun silk. “Your hair.”

 

“Your hand in my hair.” Thor leans into Clint’s arms and lays his head against Clint’s chest. His little muscles are still tight, but he has stopped shivering, and his breathing has mostly evened out. The wind has definitely died down now, and Clint hasn’t heard any thunder for several minutes.

 

“Good. That’s very good, Thor. You’re doing great. Now put another finger down, take a breath and say ‘three’.”

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

“Free.”

 

“That means we be silent for three seconds, then say what we hear. I’ll go first.”

 

. . . Breathe. . . 

 

Clint silently counts off three seconds and listens. The wind is down to a whisper, and he barely hear the rain anymore. The loudest sound in the room is the ticking of the clock on the bedside table. “The clock,” he says.

 

“Your heart.” Thor says through a yawn. Clint’s eyes start burning with unexpected tears.

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

“Your breathing,” Clint says. He rubs his hand over Thor’s back and feels the gentle rise and fall of his breaths, now soft and even. The wiry muscles relax under his touch. “Two is for smell. Take two breaths then say something we smell. I’ll go first.”

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

Clint leans in and presses his nose to Thor’s silky hair. He can feel Thor’s soft breath tickling his collarbone on the exhale.

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

Clint inhales lemons and family and home. “Your hair.”

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

“Your shabing ‘tuff.”

 

. . . Breathe. . . 

 

“One is for one thing we like to taste. I’ll go first.”

 

. . . Breathe. . . 

 

“Sriracha.”

 

. . . Breathe. . . 

 

. . . Breathe. . . 

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

“Thor?” Clint whispers. No response from the kid, so Clint shifts enough to see his face, and finds that he’s asleep. Outside the rain has stopped entirely. A sliver of blue has appeared in the unrelenting gray sky. Thank god. 

 

No, thank Laura.

 

Clint picks up his phone and snaps a picture of Thor’s sleeping face, which he texts to Laura. **It worked! Thank you!**

 

_You could bring him here, you know._

 

**I know. I’m thinking about it.**

 

Now to figure out what the hell happened that got Thor so upset, besides the attempted kidnapping, of course. He decides to start with Steve.

 

**What happened out there?**

 

_I missed most of it. You should ask Bucky. Are things better now? It sounds like the storm died down._

 

**Yes. He’s asleep.**

 

No thanks to you, he thinks. Ask Bucky? Doesn’t Steve know that Bucky doesn’t do things like _talk_ and _answer direct questions_? Well, it’s worth a shot anyway, he supposes.

 

**What happened out there?**

 

Bucky’s response is almost immediate, which surprises the heck out of Clint.

 

_didnt thor tell you_

 

**The only thing he’s said is he wants his mama. I think he’s in shock.**

 

_blood n brains evrywhr_

 

What the hell is Bucky talking about? 

 

**More details please. How did there get to be blood and brains everywhere?**

 

_Thor_

 

Clint waits for a second, in case Bucky was planning to add more to that vague comment, but no follow-up message is forthcoming. Sometimes Clint appreciates Bucky’s reticence, he has to admit. It’s a welcome relief when Tony fills the air with so much chatter. But times like this, it drives him crazy. Carefully extricating himself from halfway under the sleeping kid, he goes out to the living room so he can call Bucky like it’s 1999 or something. Good grief.

 


	17. 'Teve's bump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only 'Teve can fix what's wrong with Thor now. But first he has to make a quick trip to Target.

* * *

 

 

Bucky answers on the twelfth ring with “What?” which is more than Clint expected. This should be. . . interesting. How do you have a phone conversation with someone who doesn’t _talk_?

 

“Your line is ‘Hi Clint nice to hear from you how’s it going’.”

 

“. . .You called me. What?”

 

“Ok, right. You have to give me more details, Bucky. I need to know what happened.”

 

There is a pause, then Bucky says “Kid saved my life” through gritted teeth like each word is physically painful. This only leaves Clint wanting more information.

 

“What do you mean? Start from the beginning.”

 

“What, from when I was born? I don’t remember much from before 1945, man.”

 

Wait, Bucky just strung two sentences together, and it was a JOKE? “Bucky? Are you feeling all right? Did you just tell me a joke?”

 

“. . . Shut up.”

 

“Fine. Whatever. Just tell me what happened after you guys lost me.”

 

There is a pause, then Bucky’s sigh comes through loud and clear. “Really? I gotta tell you all that?”

 

“Yes, please. I have a traumatized kid here and I need to know what happened.”

 

“Yeah, all right. Van was crashed, driver dead.”

 

Christ, Bucky’s going to dole it out one detail at a time and make Clint fight for more. Clint can do that. He’s had come-to-Jesus conversations with a seven-year-old who plugged the toilet on purpose. He knows how to pry out information with a crowbar. “What happened to him?”

 

“Looked like lightning.”

 

“What happened next?”

 

“Stevie ripped the door off and tried to get the kid out, but he got tackled. I was trying to help him.”

 

“Where were Sam and Tony?”

 

“Pinned down by sniper fire.”

 

“Ok.” Clint waits, expecting Bucky will go on with the story, since he’s on such a hot streak now, but there’s nothing. Finally Clint prompts with “Then what happened?”

 

“I knocked down the guy who tackled Stevie. Then I heard Thor’s battle cry, but higher pitch.”

 

Loooooong pause. Clint grits his teeth. “And. . . ?”

 

“. . .And I looked up and a Hydra agent was about to shoot me in the head. No cover anywhere. Thor was behind her, and his face. . . it was kinda. . .”

 

“Kind of what?”

 

“Scary.”

 

Clint sees a picture in his head, of Thor’s jaw hardening and his eyes narrowing beneath lowered brows as he growled that he wanted the “bad peopoh” DEAD for hurting Bucky. “I know that face. What happened next?”

 

“ _Bam_.”

 

“ _Bam_? Bam as in she shot you in the head?”

 

Bucky sighs again, as if Clint is somehow the moron for not being able to read his mind. “No, _Bam_ as in lightning blew her to pieces. Blood and brains all over both of us. I had to put my arms up to keep from getting splattered in the face.”

 

“Oh. Thanks for that word picture.”

 

“You said you wanted the details.”

 

Now it’s Clint’s turn to sigh. “Yeah, I did. Go on.”

 

“I don’t think he knew it was him making it happen cuz he freaked out. When I looked again he was on the ground with his hands over his ears, screaming his fool head off.”

 

“Then what?”

 

“Then nothing. All the Hydra guys were down and I grabbed him and ran back to you.”

 

“Ok, thanks, Bucky.”

 

“Can I go now?”

 

“I guess.” Clint is about to say goodbye when he realizes the line is dead already. Bucky’s phone etiquette skills are obviously still a work in progress, but Clint thinks he got what he needed. Thor instinctively calling down lightning and then freaking out when someone got hurt by it is not something Clint had considered. It looks like trips to the park are out for the time being, at least until Thor learns some control over his powers, which Clint has absolutely no idea how to teach him. The kid’s a NORSE GOD and doesn’t even know it. How’s Clint supposed to teach him how to do NORSE GOD shit? (‘Ok, Thor, today’s lesson, how to twirl an ax-hammer and use it to fly!’ No, that’s not gonna work.) Clint can’t even teach him how to control his emotions, much less how to control the weather.

 

On the other hand, Wanda has come a long way in being able to control her emotions and powers. Maybe she’d have something teach the kid. She certainly got farther than Clint did already, just with a look, and, admittedly a touch of magic. Clint’s not sure it’s fair to subject Thor to mind control without his knowledge or consent. Grown-up Thor wasn’t exactly a fan the first time Wanda hijacked his mind. But maybe Wanda could teach him some techniques or something without using magic on him. It’s worth a try. 

 

And then what about the future? Thor being trapped in the tower long-term is probably a bad idea, so should Clint give more consideration to taking him to the farm? Laura is willing, but how will she feel in a year? What about in ten years? Will they send him to school? And what about when he doesn't grow? Will they have to keep changing schools to keep his identity a secret, or will Laura be stuck with a permanent homeschooling gig? Will Bruce and Tony and Vision ever get this puzzle figured out? What does pyrophoric mean? That doesn’t even sound like a word. Something about fire? Afraid of fire? That doesn’t sound. . .

 

Clint falls asleep on the couch mid-thought, and in his dreams he’s a passenger on an out-of-control bus careening along a narrow mountain road. The bus screeches on two wheels around a tight curve, and Clint shouts to the driver to slow down, but then the driver turns around and it’s little Thor, with his face streaked with something that might be ketchup, might be blood, might be red magic marker. He’s wearing an oversized conductor's cap that’s slipping down over his eyes, and he’s standing in the driver’s seat trying to turn a steering wheel that’s bigger than he is. Clint hears a scream behind him and turns around to see that all of the other Avengers are in the bus too, hanging on for dear life while the bus hangs off the edge of the mountain and suddenly there’s lightning and thunder and—

 

—And Clint wakes up to a fresh thunderstorm outside and the sound of Thor screaming and where the hell is he? Oh, right, Clint’s on the couch but Thor’s in the bed. Disoriented, he works his way to his feet and stumbles down the hall, where he finds the kid all tangled up in the cape and blankets, thrashing and flailing and yelling “NONONONO!!!”

 

Clint tries to catch hold of his arms so he doesn’t hurt himself. “Hey, Thor. Thor, it’s all right,” he soothes, “it’s all right. You’re safe, buddy. You’re safe.”

 

“Cwint! Cwint,” Thor sobs, pressing his face into Clint’s collarbone. “Cwint, I did somefing bad. I did somefing bad!”

 

“It’s all right, pal. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Clint smooths his hand over Thor’s sweat-damp hair. This again? They already had this conversation and Clint thought he had the kid convinced, but here they are going over the same goddamned territory once again.

 

“I didn’t mean to,” the kid gabbles into Clint’s shirtfront, “I just got ‘cared, and den wightning hitted the bad wady and her head ‘pwoded. My father will be angry wif me!”

 

“No, Thor, he won’t be angry. This isn’t your fault,” Clint tries to reassure him. Thor sits up and looks earnestly into Clint’s face with big anxious eyes.

 

“Is ‘Teve bery angry wif me?” he asks in a quavery voice.

 

“No, Steve isn’t angry. He was scared you would get hurt.”

 

“Is he angry dat I ruined his. . . cwoak hood fing?”

 

“Hoodie,” Clint corrects automatically, then quickly adds, “No, he’s not mad about that, I promise you.”

 

Thor still doesn’t look like he’s quite convinced, but Clint doesn’t think he’ll ever believe it until he hears it directly from Steve, which Clint intends to make sure happens very soon. Thor’s got enough on his mind without worrying about somehow disappointing Steve. In the meantime, he could use a little distraction. “Hey, you slept through lunch. Want something to eat?”

 

Thor considers for a moment, then nods. “Yes, dragon nuggets pwease,” he says in a very serious voice. His eyes have that troubled, anxious look to them, the one that means Clint’s gonna be up all night soothing nightmares and debunking toddler-logic theories.

 

Clint holds Thor on one hip while he gets out the nuggets, because Thor will not let himself be put down. Seriously, his clinging abilities are top-notch, rather like a baby orangutan. He’s somehow managed to lock his feet around Clint’s waist so tightly that Clint isn’t able to pry them apart, so Clint just lets go of him and uses both hands to dump the nuggets on a plate and slide it into the microwave. While they are heating, he pulls out his phone to text Steve. Thor has his head on Clint’s shoulder and appears to be watching, but Clint is counting on the kid not being able to read what he is writing.

 

**Can you bring Thor a new Captain America hoodie?**

 

**The sooner the better.**

 

_I’ll have one delivered._

 

**No, you bring it. Now please. Size 5.**

 

_I don’t have one._

 

Clint rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. **Steve, you have Tony’s entire fortune at your disposal. There are at least three stores in a five block radius that sell those hoodies. FIGURE IT OUT. Bring it here before bedtime.**

 

_Why do you want me to bring it?_

 

**Because the kid thinks you don’t like him and you’re mad at him for ruining the other one.**

 

_I’m going right now. I promise I’ll be there before bedtime._

 

**That’s better. Thank you.**

 

* * *

 

The next few hours crawl by. Clint passes the time by trying to get Thor to eat more than one chicken nugget. When that doesn’t work, he eats the rest himself, then decides to kill more time trying to teach Thor how to play Chutes and Ladders. This does not go well. Thor insists he can “cwimb the swides” but when Clint tries to contradict him, he sits back with big observant, emotional-temperature-taking eyes, and the corner of the cape stuffed in his mouth (an anxiety-related behavior Clint hadn’t seen for over a week), and Clint relents. “Sure, why not, climb the slides. Hey, you win, buddy!” 

 

Clint hopes the kid will get excited about this, or at least smile or something, but he just silently chews on the cape while Clint puts the pieces back in the box. Then he silently chews on the cape while Clint puts together the Hot Wheels track, and silently chews on the cape while Clint pushes the cars down the track, and silently chews on the cape while Clint takes it all apart and puts it away again. Goddamnit, Steve, get your ass down here already!

 

Finally, out of desperation, Clint offers him ice cream, then has to suffer through getting his emotional temperature taken again. Thor must have read the frustration on his face because he blinks rapidly and takes a step back like he thinks it’s a test and he’s not sure what the right answer is. Clint decides to clear it up for him.

 

“It’s ok, Thor. I’m feeling a little frustrated right now, but not at you. Let’s have ice cream, ok? That will make us both feel better.”

 

“Yes, Cwint.”

 

While they are eating the ice cream (well, Thor is wearing most of his), Thor says out of the blue, “Does dis pwace have a dungeon?”

 

“What?”

 

“A dungeon. A pwace for wocking up widdoh boys who misbehave. One time my father wocked me up for two days when I was bad.”

 

Clint fumbles his spoon in surprise. “Two days?”

 

“Yeah, but Woki had it worse. Father shackoh’d him to the wall for four days.” Thor, who is sitting cross-legged on the counter, nonchalantly takes another bite of ice cream before continuing, like it’s no big deal to tie up a little kid in a fucking DUNGEON. “It was onwy gonna be free days but he pee’d his pants so Father made him ‘tay an extra day. Woki was crying and promising to be good but Father wouldn’t wisten.”

 

Clint’s appetite is gone. He sets his half-empty bowl down in the sink and concentrates on not being sick. _Loki is a monster_ , he reminds himself. _Don't feel sorry for monsters_.

 

“So I fought if dere was a dungeon, maybe ‘Teve would put me dere in’tead of frow me out.”

 

 _Death by toddler-logic._ Clint steps up in front of the kid and puts a hand on his small shoulder. “Thor, listen to me,” he says in a very gentle voice.

 

It takes a minute before Thor looks up from his bowl. He’s got his best “Being Brave” face on, but his troubled eyes give him away. “Listen to me, sweetheart,” Clint repeats, “Steve is not going to throw you out or lock you up. Steve cares about you and he just wants you to be safe. He’s _not_ mad at you.”

 

More emotional temperature-taking, then Thor says “Ok, Cwint, I bewieve you,” in a voice that clearly says he doesn’t. He’s obviously just trying to keep the peace, but Clint doesn’t know how to fix that. The only one who can convince Thor that Steve isn’t mad at him is Steve himself, and Steve has not shown up yet _goddammit_.

 

* * *

 

It turns out Steve and Clint have different ideas about when bedtime is, because it’s nearly nine o’clock before the doorbell finally rings. Thor immediately runs and hides behind Clint, clinging desperately to his pantleg, while Clint opens the door.

 

Clint is about to give Steve a good chewing out, but he sees that he is out of breath and his hair is wet from the rain. Seriously, did he RUN all the way to the store? He’s carrying a Target bag, but it doesn’t take that long even to go on foot to the Midtown Target, so what has he been doing for almost four hours??

 

“Hey, Clint, I—uh—I wanted to talk to Thor. Is he—am I too late? Sorry, I had to go all the way to East River Plaza.”

 

Clint feels Thor’s face pressed against the back of his leg. “No, he’s here,” he says, reaching back to pat Thor on the head. “He’s just feeling a little—“ ( _terrified out of his mind_ ) “—shy right now. Come on out, buddy.”

 

Thor slowly steps out from behind Clint’s leg but transfers his deathgrip from Clint’s pants to Clint’s hand. His palm is sweaty and his fingers are trembling, even though his mouth is set and his jaw is steady. He’s being so Brave it’s almost physically painful to watch.

 

“Oh! Hey, Thor,” Steve says awkwardly. His obvious discomfort is painful to watch too. “Hey, I brought you something, buddy.” Steve reaches into the Target bag and pulls out a blue hoodie. “This is for you,” he says, holding out the hoodie, but Thor just stares up, up, up at him, wide-eyed. With the height difference between them, even Clint feels intimidated by Steve at times, so how must Thor feel right now?

 

Thor still hasn’t taken the hoodie (probably because he would have to jump to reach it, for christ’s sake). Steve looks at Clint like, _What do I do next?_ With an extreme effort, Clint manages not to roll his eyes while he gestures for Steve to get down to the kid’s level. After a second sideways glance at Clint, Steve finally finally crouches down so they can see eye to eye.

 

“Here you go, Thor. It’s a Captain America hoodie, see?” Steve says, opening the hoodie and holding it up so Thor can see the shield on the front. “I brought you a new one.”

 

Thor still doesn’t take the hoodie, but he finally pulls the corner of the cape out of his mouth long enough to ask, “Why you bringed me dat? Is it because I ruined the udder one?”

 

“You didn’t ruin it, pal. The—uh—the bad people did that. I’m sorry they hurt you.” At this point, Steve honestly looks like he’s in more pain than Thor is. Thor’s big fearful eyes search Steve’s face from top to bottom, obviously taking the emotional temperature again.

 

“I’m all right, Ssss-teve,” Thor says in a reassuring voice. “You don’t need to be sorry.”

 

“That’s good, Thor. You know I’m not mad at you, right?”

 

More face searching, then Thor says, “You’re sad.”

 

Steve looks a bit taken aback by that. “I’m not sad either,” he says. Clint’s not sure if he really believes that, or if he’s just bluffing for the kid’s sake, because his sadness is so obvious that he might as well have it written on his forehead. In fact, he DOES have it written on his forehead, in the slope of his eyebrows, and in his stupid puppy-dog eyes. It’s so obvious even a toddler can see it. Does Steve never look in a mirror?

 

Thor watches Steve’s face thoughtfully for a minute, then reaches up and presses his thumb to the pucker between Steve’s eyebrows. “Why you got dat sad bump?”

 

“I do?”

 

“Yes,” Thor says in his very serious tone.

 

“Well, I guess . . . I am sad.”

 

“Cwint says you wos’ your friend.”

 

“He did, huh? Can we be friends?”

 

“Yes,” Thor responds immediately in that same serious tone, “I want to be your friend.”

 

“Can I—Can I have a hug?” Steve opens his arms, almost tentatively, and Thor doesn’t hesitate. He immediately throws himself into Steve’s arms where he almost disappears. As Steve stands up, Clint catches a glimpse of Thor’s face against Steve’s shoulder. His eyes are closed and he’s got this beatific smile from ear to ear. Aww. . . now Steve’s making the melty-heart face. It’s a good look on him.

 

Thor pipes up, his voice muffled from Steve’s shoulder, “Fank you, ‘Teve. I’m gwad you’re not mad at me. I don’t want you to frow me out.”

 

Bye-bye, melty-heart face. Suddenly the sad bump is back and Steve’s eyes are brimming. “Never, Thor, I’d never throw you out. You always have a place here with us, no matter what.”

 


	18. Big Green Mon'ter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor likes his new Captain America Hoodie, and his new friend 'Teve, and Mater the fuck, and the 'mell of Cwint's shabing 'tuff. He doesn't like yoga and the big green mon'ter.

* * *

Thor adds the Captain America hoodie over the top of the Bucky shirt and Hawkeye pjs. The crooked hood and lumpy sleeves match well with the matted hair that Clint forgot to comb out after his bath. The look is a bit cluttered, but he makes it work for him.

 

 _Sure, kid, wear that get-up to bed. Why not?_ Clint only feels like he’s SLEEPING ON THE SURFACE OF THE SUN.

 

* * *

 

That night is BRUTAL. By about two in the morning, Clint has pretty much given up on sleep. His attempts to debunk Thor’s crazy and increasingly depressing theories are mostly falling on deaf ears.

 

“What if my mother got wost wooking for me? Maybe we should go wook for her right now.”

 

“No, it’s the middle of the night, buddy. It’s time to go to sleep.”

 

“What if dose bad peopoh ‘tole Woki too?”

 

“No, I’m sure they didn’t do that. Can we please just go to sleep?”

 

“What if Woki put a ‘pell on my parents so dey forgot about me?”

 

“I don’t think Loki can do spells like that. Let’s try going to sleep now and we’ll worry about it in the morning.”

 

“What if my mother and father are dead?”

 

This startles Clint into silence. While he is sitting there blinking, wondering how the hell he is supposed to respond, Thor yawns so big Clint can almost see his tonsils and says, “Will you ‘nuggoh me?”

 

“Um, sure, buddy.” He opens his arms and Thor slides into them, with his head against Clint’s chest.

 

“I can hear your heartbeat,” Thor says sleepily. “I wuv you, Cwint.”

 

By the time Clint can get his wits together to respond, “I love you too, Thor,” the kid is snoring already. If only it were that easy for Clint to shut off the crazy theory factory in his own brain. 

 

_What if they never figure this out?_

 

_What if I’m stuck taking care of this kid for the rest of my life?_

 

_What if something happens to me?_

 

_What if something happens to him? What if Hydra kills him the next time?_

 

_What if. . ._

 

_What if. . ._

 

* * *

 

4:00 a.m.

 

“Cwint! CWINT! It’s time to get up! CWINT! Wet’s go to the gym!”

 

_Groan_

 

* * *

 

Clint is amazed at how quickly Thor bounces back, or he would be if he could hold his eyes open. Thor leaps from one piece of furniture to the next roaring like a lion cub while Clint fixes the Pop-tarts. His brain’s not quite functioning, so it takes him three tries to remember how to start the toaster, and at least five minutes to track down a clean sippy cup for Thor’s juice. Then when he calls Thor in to breakfast, the kid gobbles it all down in less than a minute.

 

“Can we go to the gym now? PWEEEEASE??”

 

Clint feels like the luckiest man in the world when the doorbell rings at that very moment, and it’s Nat come to take Thor to the gym. Clint mumbles something that probably doesn’t make much sense about wearing him out but not breaking him, then staggers back to bed. SLEEEEEEEEP.

 

Nat does an awesome job wearing the kid out. Right after she brings him back, he sacks out on the floor and takes a blissful two hour nap. It’s heaven on earth. Clint is ecstatic. He texts Nat a picture of Thor curled up on the floor cuddling a monster truck, with the caption **YOU ARE A SAINT!**

 

Sitting there watching Thor sleep, Clint's sleep-deprived brain decides that asking Wanda to help the kid learn to control his powers is the _best idea ever_. He sits down on the couch with his feet near Thor’s head and texts her.

 

**Hey, Wanda, do you think you could help Thor learn to control his powers?**

 

_I have no idea how to teach him to call down lightning_

 

**He doesn’t have a problem calling down lightning. He needs help learning how NOT to call down lightning.**

 

_I don’t know how to do that either_

 

**You seem to have improved at controlling your powers. I haven’t seen you accidentally tear someone to pieces or blow up a building in months. What’s your secret?**

 

_Honestly? Yoga_

 

**Yoga?**

 

_Yes. Bring Thor to the gym tomorrow and I’ll teach you._

 

**I want you to teach him**

 

_I’ll teach you both. Then you can do it with him when I’m not around._

 

Asking Wanda to help Thor learn to control his powers is the _worst idea ever_.

 

* * *

 

Thor compensates for the nap by staying up until almost midnight. Clint texts Nat a picture of Thor jumping on the bed, hair flying, with the caption **THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!**

 

_You were the one who let him take a nap._

 

DAMMIT, she’s right. No more naps, Clint thinks sadly. They aren’t worth the unintended consequences.

 

* * *

 

INSERT NIGHTMARE HERE. IT DOESN’T MATTER WHICH ONE. THEY ARE ALL AWFUL AND HORRENDOUS AND LOTS OF OTHER NEGATIVE ADJECTIVES THAT CLINT CAN’T THINK OF RIGHT NOW BECAUSE HIS BRAIN IS FRIIIIIIIIIED.

 

* * *

 

Yoga lessons with Wanda go about as well as one would expect. The first pose is called “easy pose”, and it’s. . . easy. Or at least it’s easy for Clint. The hardest part is not falling asleep sitting there with his hands on his knees.

 

It’s not so easy for a preschooler with a motor in his butt.

 

“HOW WONG WE GOTTA SIT HERE?”

.

.

.

“CAN WE JUMP ON THE FAMPOWINE NOW??”

.

.

.

“CWINT, WOOK! I CAN BAWANCE WIF MY WEGS IN THE AIR!”

 

It does not help that Wanda sits completely still with her eyes closed and says stupid shit like “gently squeeze your ribs against your lungs” and “take three Ujjayi breaths before the next retention.” What the hell does that shit even mean? Clint’s kind of having trouble concentrating because he’s trying to keep an eye on Thor, who is practically doing backward somersaults around the floor from all his pent-up energy. Wanda opens one eye, raises an eyebrow at him skeptically, but soldiers on.

 

Next up is Eagle pose, which requires them to balance on one foot. Thor’s trying, he really is, but he ends up bouncing all over the gym like a one-legged frog.

 

“Thor, find your focal point and bring your awareness to your left leg,” Wanda reminds him. She bites her lip and watches out of the corner of her eye as he overbalances and hops sideways to keep from falling. “Um, extend your arms like wings.”

 

“WIKE DIS??” he cries, flapping his arms in a vain attempt to keep his balance. “Dis is FUN!”

 

_That’s because you’re doing it wrong, kiddo._

 

“Let’s try something simpler,” Wanda sighs. She shows them child’s pose, which looks deceptively easy, even relaxing, when Wanda demonstrates it, but when Clint tries it, he finds he doesn’t bend that way and all of his joints starts screaming at him.

 

Thor, on the other hand, folds himself in half no problem, and holds the pose for approximately one-tenth of a second, then announces, “I GOTTA POOP."

 

Well, that was fun. Next idea??

 

* * *

 

Clint’s gotten way too used to being awakened at oh-dark-thirty by a scream and flash of lightning. Auto-pilot takes over, and he’s not even fully awake as he pulls Thor in against him and strokes his hair. “It’s ok, buddy. You’re safe,” he mumbles automatically.

 

“I hadda fight a big green mon’ter,” Thor sobs. “I couldn’t move, and he ‘quished me!”

 

_Huh? What was that again?_

 

Clint’s wide awake now, but Thor is already asleep again with his sweaty, stinky head pressed up against Clint’s chin. Fighting a big green monster? Has to be the Hulk. Bruce had told them about him and Thor being forced into combat, but this little guy doesn’t have Big Thor’s memories, does he? So how does he even know about the “big green mon’ter?”

 

_Yes, thank you, brain, that is worth staying awake the rest of the night worrying about._

 

* * *

 

_Group text from: Steve_

_It’s Wednesday again. What should we watch tonight?_

 

**Pulp Fiction**

 

_Steve: NO_

 

_Bruce: How about Bambi?_

 

_Sam: dead parents_

 

_Nat: Snow White?_

 

_Sam: dead parents_

 

_Wanda: Cinderella_

 

_Sam: dead parents_

 

 **Frozen** , Clint suggests, just to see Sam’s response. He does not disappoint.

 

_Sam: DEAD PARENTS, and she controls the weather._

 

_Steve: There have to be some kids’ movies out there where the parents don’t die._

 

_Sam: It’s kind of Disney’s thing._

 

_Bucky: Cars_

 

_Tony: BUCKY BARNES HAS RESPONDED TO A GROUP TEXT_

 

_Bucky: Shut up tony_

 

_Tony: He addressed me personally! With more than a single word! I think I’m going to faint now. Whew!_

 

_Steve: Seriously, shut up, Tony. What do we think about Cars?_

 

**Thor does wike fucks**

 

_Sam: Huh??_

 

_Nat: Trucks. He means trucks._

 

_Tony: Someone PLEASE get that kid some speech therapy. I’ll pay any amount of money._

 

_Nat: Bruce can fix him for free._

 

_Bruce: I tried. Can’t fix that one._

 

_Wanda: Cars is ok by me._

 

_Tony: I liked it better when it was called Doc Hollywood, but ok._

 

* * *

 

When Clint carries Thor into the common room that evening, still wearing allllll of his fandom gear, the kid immediately slithers down out of his arms and runs over to Bucky on the couch. Clint is about to take the seat on the other side of him when the kid surprises them all by shouting, “‘TEVE! Sit by me!!”

 

Steve’s eyes light up, but then he looks at Clint and his grin falters a little. “Do you mind?”

 

“Hell no! I’m happy to have him be someone else’s favorite for a while.” Clint illustrates his point by flopping down between Sam and Bruce on the other couch. Steve sits down next to Thor with a tentative smile on his face, that widens when Thor stretches up to put one small hand on each of their shoulders.

 

“Dis is my Bucky and dis is my ‘Teve. Ssss-teve,” he says, patting their shoulders. Steve looks pleased as punch. Bucky’s not exactly making the melty-heart face, but he is definitely suppressing a grin. Sam, Wanda, and Nat, who all have their phones out, aren’t holding back. It’s sickening.

 

Thor has approximately one million questions about Cars, and of course Steve has to try to answer every one of them. They might as well just mute the soundtrack because it’s almost impossible to hear the movie over all the talking. Clint finally gives up on watching the movie and starts filming the interaction between Steve and Thor instead, with his phone down by his knee so they don’t know they are being recorded.

 

“Why dat car’s got a face?”

 

“To make it look like a person. It’s just pretend.”

 

“Who’s gonna win dat race?”

 

“I bet we’ll find out in a minute.”

 

“WOW DAT’S A BIG FUCK! I WIKE DAT FUCK!”

 

“Trrrrrruck. That’s Mac. Yes, he’s big.”

 

“Where are dey going?”

 

“To the next race.”

 

“What happened to the fuck?”

 

“Trrrrruck. I think he fell asleep.”

 

“Fucks can fall asweep??”

 

“Trrrrrucks. Not for real. This is pretend, remember?”

 

“OH NO WIGHTNING FALLED OUT! WAIT, FUCK, YOU FORGOT WIGHTNING AQUEEN!!”

 

“Trrrrruck.”

 

“Why you keep saying dat?”

 

 _Sigh_. “Never mind. I think it’s going to be ok.”

 

“Where’s dat fuck going?”

 

“I think he’s looking for Lightning.”

 

“Wook! Dat’s a widdoh fuck. Who’s dat?”

 

“That’s Mater. He’s a tow truck.”

 

“I wike dat widdoh fuck!”

 

“Yes, me too. He’s pretty cool.”

 

And so on. And then, just as Lightning finishes repaving the road the first time, the questions suddenly stop. Clint looks over to see Thor curled up under Bucky’s metal arm, his cheek against Bucky’s chest, sound asleep. Bucky sits completely frozen, while his silver fingers cradle the back of Thor’s head as gently as if it were a raw egg.

 

“Should we turn it off?” Steve whispers.

 

“Um. . . anyone else all that into watching the rest of Cars?” Sam whispers back. Everyone immediately shakes their heads.

 

“We could watch Pulp Fiction,” Clint suggests hopefully, but Steve furrows his brow and mouths ‘no’. Clint shrugs. It was worth a shot.

 

Nat shuts off the movie while Steve and Bucky fumble around for a minute helping Bucky stand up without waking Thor, who is all red-cheeked, sleep-soft and floppy. Bucky doesn’t seem to know how to hold onto him; the kid’s head is sliding off Bucky’s shoulder, but Bucky looks reluctant to adjust his grip for fear of disturbing him. When Clint holds out his hands to take him, Bucky shakes his head, spits a strand of Thor’s hair out of his mouth, and grunts, “I got him.”

 

Everyone whispers “good night,” and heads off to their own quarters, even though it’s not even nine o’clock. Life of the party, these guys.

 

When they get to Clint’s quarters, Bucky heads toward the kids’ bedroom, but Clint says, “Go ahead and put him in my bed.” Bucky gives him a skeptical look, which Clint ignores. He’s not about to take crap about his parenting techniques from a hundred-year-old assassin who’s never held a sleeping kid before. “Right down the hall on your left,” Clint says, pointing, as if Bucky didn’t know that already. _Just being helpful._

 

Bucky rolls his eyes, but heads down the hall without a word. When they get to Clint’s room, Clint lets Bucky fumble around for at least a minute trying to lay the kid down without waking him before he finally concedes to help.

 

“Here, just. . . hold onto his head. Not too tight. I got his arm. Ok, lean over. A little more. Careful, don’t squish him.” Working together (well, sort of. Bucky doesn’t seem to have much experience with _teamwork_ either), they finally get the kid laid down on the bed, where he squirms and curls up on his side. Bucky looks like he’s gonna have a heart attack until he settles down with one hand tucked under his flushed cheek.

 

“Should we take the sweater off him?” Bucky whispers.

 

“I think he’s fine.”

 

“He looks too hot.”

 

“That’s normal for him.” Clint heads back to the living room without waiting to see if Bucky’s going to argue about it more. There’s no way he’s trying to take that hoodie off the kid and risk waking him up. Then this would technically qualify as a **nap** and he’ll be up all night.

 

When they get back to the living room, Bucky’s got more to complain about, of course. “Why’s the kid sleeping in your bed? You got a whole other bedroom.” 

 

_Seriously, this? Come on, Grandpa. I liked you better when you didn’t talk. At least then I could imagine you were thinking something profound._

 

Clint manages not to say that. He is _so_ good. He deserves cookies. “He’s not big on the whole independence thing,” he says instead. Now, if Bucky will just drop this subject _please and thank you_ , they can get on with life. Clint’s got some cookies to eat and he’d prefer not to share.

 

Bucky scoffs and shakes his head. “If I pulled shit like that, my pa woulda whipped my ass. A kid’s gotta learn to eat what he’s served and stay in his bed when you tell him to.”

 

 _Ok, that’s enough_. Clint has tried to restrain himself, but his filter can only hold so much. He cocks his head and spits, “He’s a traumatized little kid. He comes to me crying in the night and you want me to beat him for not staying in his bed?”

 

A flicker of uncertainty passes across Bucky’s face as he cuts his eyes to the side. “I didn’t mean beat him,” he mutters. 

 

Uh-uh, Clint’s not gonna drop it there. Bucky doesn’t get off that easy, even if he could squish Clint like a grape with two fingers. Enough with the poisonous bullshit. Enough with the Big Boys Don’t Cry. Enough with the Emotions Stuffing. Jaw hard and arms folded, Clint takes a step closer. “Tell me, Bucky, how many kids you got?”

 

Bucky takes a step back. “None, but—“

 

“But nothing. You have to give kids what they need if they’re gonna thrive, and the most important thing this kid needs is love and security. Without that, nothing else means shit.”

 

Bucky just sort of blinks at him, like he’d never considered that before. Of course he hadn’t—all the love and security was beat out of him a long time ago. Shit, even when he’s being an asshole Bucky is still depressing. The realization takes the wind out of Clint's sails a little.

 

“You and me, we didn’t get a lot of that,” he continues in a bit softer voice, “but I’m sure as hell not gonna pass that on to the next generation. I want to do better.”

 

A few more blinks, then Bucky drops his eyes and shrugs. “Yeah, ok,” he says, mouth twisted. “You’re the expert. Still wouldn’t kill him to eat a vegetable every once in a while.”

 

“Yeah, maybe you’ve got a point there.”

 

* * *

 

Another middle of the night lightning storm. Another bout of incoherent screaming. Clint catches Thor’s flailing arms and pulls him in. “It’s ok, pal, it’s ok. I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

 

Thor keeps wailing and shouting something unintelligible. It takes a minute for Clint to figure out he’s screaming, “IT BWOWED UP! IT BWOWED UP!!”

 

“What blew up, Thor?”

 

“The Pawace!! Dey’re all DEAD!!! The pawace bwowed up!” And then he dissolves into inconsolable sobs.

 

That. . . that really happened, right? As Clint strokes Thor’s hair and mumbles, “shhhh. . . it was just a dream,” he’s trying to remember what Bruce said about the destruction of Asgard (or at least what Bruce passed on second-hand since he was busy being the Hulk at the time): Loki and Thor blew up the palace. So is Thor _remembering_ that, or is it just a little boy’s overactive imagination, fed by fear and trauma?

 

“Can we do dat ‘mewwing fing?” Thor whispers raggedly between sobs.

 

“Um. . . melling thing?”

 

“Yes,” Thor sniffles, “where I wisten to your heart and ‘mell your shabing ‘tuff.”

 

“Oh, the senses countdown. Sure.” He holds out his hand and Thor puts his trembling hand on top. Thor’s ear is pressed hard to Clint’s chest and his nose is tipped up toward Clint’s jaw.

 

This time Thor is asleep before they even get to four. Clint can’t sleep because his mind is racing, thinking of how he’s gonna pin Steve down in the morning and _make_ him see reason. They are hurting this kid by keeping the truth from him, and it’s got to stop now.


	19. Wies and the Foof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Thor finds out the truth in pretty much the worst way possible.

* * *

 

While Clint is fixing breakfast (yay! Pop-tarts again! Those aren’t getting old at ALL), and Thor is noisily re-enacting Cars in the living room with himself in the role of “WIGHTNING AQUEEN!”, Clint asks Friday what Steve’s schedule is for the day.

 

“Captain Rogers is currently on his morning run. He has a briefing at seven, a training session with security staff at eight, and a mission planning session with Airman Wilson at one.”

 

“So he’s free at ten?”

 

“Yes. Shall I schedule a meeting with him for you?”

 

“No, no thanks, Friday,” Clint says hastily, “I’ll take care of it myself.” He wants to get all of his ducks in a row before he contacts Steve, so he doesn’t have a reason to weasel out of it.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam comes to get Thor in the morning at a reasonable hour. “Reasonable” meaning 5 a.m. Since when did Clint start thinking of five in the fucking morning as reasonable??

 

As Sam and Thor are getting ready to go out the door, Clint decides to pre-empt one possible roadblock to meeting with Steve today. “Hey, Sam, I’m going to need a babysitter at ten today. Are you free?”

 

“Sure. What’s up?”

 

“I’m going to meet with Steve and. um. have a little talk about. . .” (he casts a wary glance at Thor, who is sitting comfortably in the crook of Sam’s elbow looking quite bright-eyed and interested) “. . . things.”

 

“Oh. Ok. I gotta warn you I’m tired today. Kinda stayed up half the night working on a project for an upcoming mission.”

 

“I get it, pal. Half-nights is all we do around here these days.” Clint cuts his eyes meaningfully to Thor, who grins back like he doesn’t have a care in the world, as if he’s not the _reason_ for those sleepless nights. 

 

Sam clearly gets it, judging by his smirk. “I hear you. See you later, alligator.”

 

“In a while, crocodile.”

 

Before Clint closes the door behind them, Clint hears Thor asking Sam, “WHY YOU CALLED CWINT A AWIGATOR? WHAT’S A AWIGATOR??”

 

“It’s just a saying.”

 

“A AWIGATOR IS A SAYING?”

 

“Um. . . no. . . an alligator is an animal with big teeth.”

 

“CWINT DOESN’T HAVE BIG TEEF. HE WOOKS MORE WIKE A MEERCAT. WIKE TIMON.”

 

“You know what, you’re right. Clint does look like Timon.”

 

This is monstrously unfair. Clint isn’t a meercat. He is a majestic lion. A majestic lion who hasn’t showered in three days and really really needs a cup or five of coffee.

 

* * *

 

**Text to Steve**

**We have to talk**

 

_About what?_

 

About what, he says, like he doesn’t know. How could he not know??

 

**About Thor. We have to tell him the truth**

 

_We just have to wait a little longer until Tony and Bruce and Vision can figure this out_

 

**No, I refuse to wait any longer. This isn’t right**

 

_They’re making progress. It won’t be long_

 

**We need to tell him now. He’s starting to remember things**

 

_Are you sure?_

 

**Not positive but his nightmares are pretty spot on**

 

_Wanda and Vision are out on a mission. We can call a team meeting this weekend when everyone is here_

 

**No, not this weekend. Now.**

 

_How about Friday?_

 

**NOW. TODAY.**

 

_I’ve already got a lot on my agenda today._

 

Bullshit. **You’re free at ten. If you don’t call a meeting, I will**

 

At least ten minutes pass before Steve replies. Clint has already composed a group text and has his finger hovering over the send button when the response comes through.

 

_Ok. What are we going to do with Thor while we’re meeting?_

 

**I’ve already got that covered. Sam has agreed to babysit. Invite Bruce and Bucky please.**

 

_Why Bucky?_

 

Oh. Um. . . how to explain this without telling Steve something Bucky doesn’t want him to know?

 

 **He’s part of the team. He’ll want to be involved in the discussion.** Please, Steve, don’t question it, don’t question it. . . 

 

_Ok. I’ll invite everyone._

 

Whew.

 

-0-

 

Clint gets to the conference room early, thinking he’ll grab the spot by the door so Steve can’t just up and leave. Apparently Bucky had this same idea because he’s already sitting in that seat. In the dark. Clint about has a heart attack when he flips the lights on and almost runs right into him.

 

“Shit, Bucky. What do you have against lights?”

 

Bucky shrugs and opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but Tony walks in at that very moment and Bucky zips his lips again. Apparently that ‘we talk to each other now’ thing doesn’t extend to when Tony is around. Well, fine. Clint’s gonna sit by him anyway. On his right, close enough to be in his personal space. Ha!

 

“Hello, friends. I can call you friends, right?” Tony says, pulling out a chair on the opposite side of the table and flopping down into it. His hair is mussed and there is a smudge of grease across his cheek that almost exactly matches the dark circles under his eyes. “How are we on this fine day? At least I think it’s a fine day. I haven’t actually been outside in over a week now, having been trapped in the lab and all. Working with hazardous chemicals, alongside an unpredictable rage monster. . . oh, hello Bruce.”

 

Bruce, who has appeared in the doorway with Nat and Steve, just nods wearily and drops into a chair on the other side of Clint. Clint expects Steve will go to the head of the table where he usually sits, but instead he takes a seat on the other side of Bucky where Clint can’t look him in the eye. It’s gotta be deliberate. Everyone looks expectantly at Steve, but he doesn’t say anything right away.

 

“Well?” says Tony, eyebrows raised. “Some of us have work to do, so if we can get this party started, that would be great.”

 

Steve clears his throat. “Right. We. . .uh. . . we wanted to get an update on how your project is coming along.”

 

“You called us out of the lab for that? I assume you’ve heard of text messaging? The update is no update. We can’t get that stone to do a goddamned thing. Ok? Good. Bruce, let’s go.” 

 

Tony gets up like he’s going to leave, and Steve just sits there like he’s going to _let_ him. Nuh-uh. This meeting’s not over. Not by a long shot. “That’s not the only thing,” Clint interrupts. He leans forward so he can see Steve’s profile on the other side of Bucky. Steve is inspecting his fingernails like he’s going to find the DaVinci code written on them. Fine. Screw protocol. Clint is taking the wheel. “We need to talk about what we’re going to tell Thor.”

 

“What do you think we should tell him?” Nat asks Clint.

 

“The truth. It’s not fair to keep lying to him.”

 

“Then why the hell haven’t we done that already?” Tony asks, looking at Clint like it’s _his_ decision. Clint just folds his arms and glares at Steve.

 

“Because it’ll break his heart,” Steve speaks up finally. The sad bump between his eyebrows is especially prominent. Clint wonders if he’s aware of it. “We all saw how he’d been since, well, everything that happened, how miserable he was. Now he’s got a clean slate. All those painful memories are gone. He can start over.” Steve looks around the table, obviously searching for support for his side. It’s hard to tell if he’s getting any. Bucky’s wearing his usual scowl. Nat has her arms crossed and lips pursed, looking very Slavic. Tony’s knee is jiggling impatiently. Bruce looks the most sympathetic, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Bruce always looks like he’s sharing your pain.

 

 “This isn’t permanent, Steve,” Bruce says gently. “We aren’t making much headway yet, but we will figure it out, and he will have to go back.”

 

“So why can’t we wait for that point? Why borrow trouble? Just enjoy the break as long as it lasts.”

 

“He’s starting to remember things,” Clint objects. “If we wait, he’ll just remember it on his own, and that will be worse.”

 

“But for now he’s a happy little kid.. We need to let him have that. Don’t yank the rug out from under him and take that security away from him. It’s not right. Let him be a kid. It’s—he’s laughing again. He’s _happy._ ”

 

“He’s not a happy little kid at night,” Clint shoots back. “He doesn’t sleep more than a couple hours at a time before he wakes up screaming.”

 

“Telling him the truth won’t fix that,” Steve says, “believe me, I know.”

 

Bucky, who has been sitting slumped in his chair, staring at the far wall like it insulted his mother, finally speaks up. “He ain’t you, Stevie,” he says flatly. 

 

Steve’s mouth twists in an attempt to control his emotions. It’s pretty clear that he thought Bucky, at least, would be on his side. His eyes flit around the table searching for support, but now quite obviously not finding any. Everyone has their arms folded now, even Bruce. 

 

Steve’s chin wrinkles and his voice goes up a notch, both in volume and intensity. “Come on, guys! What are we going to tell him??” he spits. “Hey, Thor, we’ve been lying to you this whole time. Actually, your whole family is dead, and in fact, your entire planet has been destroyed. Everyone you ever knew and loved is gone, and your so-called brother—“

 

Steve’s little tirade is interrupted by a loud sizzle-snap: a bolt of lightning flashes out of the clear blue sky and strikes the window, cracking the glass. It’s followed immediately by a clap of thunder so loud that the walls shake. The lights brighten to an almost blinding intensity, flicker, then shut off, along with the air conditioning and the hum of computers.

 

In the eerie silence that follows, Clint hears a small, muffled whimper coming from outside the door. SHIT! While everyone else is still sitting frozen at the table, goggling at each other in confusion, Clint scrambles to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process, and sprints out of the room into the semi-dark hallway, where he comes face to face with mini-Thor, crouched in the hallway with a piece of paper crumpled in his fist. The kid’s eyes are huge, and his face is screwed up like he’s screaming, but no sound is coming out.

 

Clint keep his face calm, but he feels like something is squeezing his chest, making it hard to get a breath. This is exactly what he was trying to avoid! “Thor? Thor, it’s all right,” he murmurs placatingly, reaching out toward the kid but afraid to touch. Thor doesn’t move. Is he even breathing? “Thor, buddy. . .”

 

The power comes back on with a woosh. Behind him Clint can hear the sounds of the team pushing back chairs, arguing with each other in hushed voices, footsteps approaching, but Thor still doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t make a sound. Clint doesn’t dare move either for fear of scaring him away.

 

At that moment, Sam comes running down the hall, out of breath. He pulls up short behind Thor and blows out a huff of relief. “There you are!” he exclaims. “Sorry I fell asleep. You have to tell me when you’re going to leave. You scared me!”

 

This seems to pull Thor out of his trance. He sucks in a gasp of air and jerks his head around to stare wide-eyed at Sam, then back to Clint, then to the doorway of the conference room, where Clint can see out of the corner of his eye that Bucky is standing with the rest of the team behind him.

 

“Hey, Squirt,” Bucky says softly, taking a step forward. Still wild-eyed and breathing jerkily, Thor backs away, one step, two steps, then before anyone can react, he turns and bolts down the hallway and around the corner.

 

With a muttered “Shit”, Clint takes off after him, Bucky on his heels. By the time they round the corner, Thor is nowhere in sight. _Where would he go where would he go where would he go??_ “Friday!” he calls, “Where is Thor??”

 

The only response is a soft beep, then the too-calm words, “System reboot in process. Please stand by.”

 

SHIIIIIIT!! 

 

“Where would he go?” Bucky barks, his voice edged with fear. Hey, another emotion! Or is that the same as panic? _What a stupid thing to be thinking right now, Barton. FOCUS!_

 

“He likes to hide in small spaces,” Clint tells him, looking left and right at the next intersection. Even though they’re in an interior hallway with no windows, he can still hear the thunder booming outside almost constantly, but it’s everywhere and provides no direction. _Which way??_

 

“You go left and I’ll go right,” Bucky orders. Clint doesn’t question it. He just goes, ignoring all the conference rooms and anonymous empty offices along the way. Those doors are all closed. The only door Thor would close behind him would be a closet. Did Asgard have barns? If so, Thor must have been born in one. That kid doesn’t even close the bathroom door. Good god, _FOCUS, BARTON, FOCUS!_

 

He rounds another corner, and _there_! A half-open doorway, just wide enough for a kid to slip through. Since it’s the only one open, it stands out like a missing tooth. Clint stands outside, listening, but he can’t hear anything over the thunder, so he slowly opens the door enough to look into the room, only to find it empty save a bare desk and chair up against one wall. He’s about to back out again when he notices a small closet on the other side of the room. The door is closed, but when he gets close enough he can hear the faint sounds of stifled weeping coming from inside.

 

Clint stands outside for several seconds, chewing his lip while he listens to Thor’s heartbroken sobs. This is not fair. This is so not fair. This kid doesn’t deserve this. _Big Thor_ didn’t deserve this. Thor lost _everything_ over the past year, and he was just coming to terms with it, and now he has to relive that loss all over again. The enormity of Thor’s pain is tearing Clint apart.

 

Lightly tapping on the door, Clint says, “Thor?”

 

He hears a small gasp, then nothing. “Hey buddy, it’s me.”

 

Still nothing.

 

“I’m going to open the door.” Still no response, so Clint slowly opens the door to find Thor huddled on the floor hugging his knees. He has one hand over his mouth and the other arm wrapped up over his head, fingers fisted in his hair. He’s rocking himself jerkily back and forth.

 

Clint crouches down next to him. “Thor, sweetheart. . .” He reaches out and strokes Thor’s tear-stained cheek with the back of his fingers. “It’s ok, buddy.”

 

Thor yanks away, screaming, “NO! NONONONONO!!!!!” 

 

There is a lump in Clint’s throat and his eyes are burning. When he crawls into the closet, Thor presses himself back further into the corner. 

 

“Thor, I’m so sorry—“ Clint whispers. Thor’s only response is to turn his face toward the wall and wrap his arms more tightly around his head. “I’m so sorry, honey. I’m so sorry,” Clint repeats, because it’s the only thing he can think of to say. Clint doesn’t have any way to make this better. A bow and arrow won’t kill this pain. Hammer and nails won’t repair Thor’s broken heart. 

 

Clint lays a tentative hand on Thor’s shoulder, but the kid pushes him away and starts kicking his feet hard into Clint’s thigh. “You WIED to me!!” Thor wails. “Dey’re all DEAD! DEY’RE ALL DEAD!” He pummels Clint with his balled up fists, hard enough to leave bruises. Even in the windowless office, Clint can hear the thunder booming and rain pounding the building, just like Thor’s flailing hands and feet are pounding on Clint’s arms and chest and legs over and over, and Clint just sits there and takes it, because he can see that this little guy’s heart is in pieces all over the ground. In an instant Thor went from “golden prince in a golden palace” to “homeless orphan”. Clint has been that homeless orphan. He is intimately acquainted with that pain, like his guts are being pulled out until there is nothing left but emptiness and it will hurt forever and ever and everything is wrong and it will be never right again. The hard lump in Clint’s throat pushes its way up and out his eyes until he can barely see through the tears. 

 

Finally the kid runs out of steam and his screams turn into sobs of despair. “You wied to me,” he whimpers, batting at Clint as his shoulders shudder spasmodically. “Cwint. . .Dey’re all _dead_.” Clint catches his arms and pulls him in, and this time Thor climbs into his lap, wraps his arms tightly around Clint’s neck, and clings to him desperately. “Mother!” he sobs, “Mama! I want my mama. I want my mama.”

 

“I know, sweetheart. I’m so sorry,” Clint whispers hoarsely. He presses his wet face into Thor’s hair, and keeps murmuring, “I’m so sorry,” until the kid’s sobs trail off to the occasional whimper, then a few jerky breaths until he finally goes still and heavy against Clint’s shoulder. Asleep. That’s good, right? No, that’s bad. Clint is trapped beneath a sleeping kid, in a closet in some anonymous empty office, and no one knows where the hell they are. Awkwardly, Clint works his phone out of his jeans pocket and texts Nat.

 

**Help**

 

_Clint? What’s going on? Storm’s letting up a little. Is he ok?_

 

**Naptrapped**

 

_Where are you?_

 

**No idea. Ask Friday**

 

_Will do. Hang in there._

 

It’s almost five minutes before Nat shows up. Clint knows because he keeps checking the time on his phone, compulsively, every few seconds. God, it’s so hot in here, he’s melting. MELTING. He’s covered in sweat and his arm is almost asleep by the time he hears a quiet knock at the door.

 

“Clint?” Nat whispers.

 

Instead of answering, Clint pushes the door open a crack, and Nat pokes her head in. Instant melty-heart face. _Fucking hell_.

 

“Hey,” Nat whispers, squeezing into the closet with them. “You guys ok?”

 

“He kinda fell apart. And then he fell asleep on me. You know, typical Norse god shit.”

 

Nat reaches out to stroke Thor’s sweat-damp hair back out of his face. “What a shitty way for him to find out, huh?”

 

“He was bound to find out sooner or later. It was never gonna be easy.”

 

“True. Do you want to come out?”

 

“No, I don’t want to wake him up,” Clint says reluctantly, because his entire arm has gone numb from the shoulder all the way to his hand, he’s dying of thirst, and he really needs to take a piss. But if he tries to get up and Thor wakes up before he’s ready, god help them all.

 

“Ok. Do you need anything?”

 

“Um. . .some water.”

 

“Ok.”

 

“Maybe a snack.”

 

“Ok.”

 

“A bottle to piss in.”

 

Nat flashes a crooked grin, just quick and then it’s gone. “You’re on your own with that one,” she says, pushing herself up to her feet. “You want the door open or closed?”

 

“Open, please. Fuck, it’s hot in here. I can’t breathe.”

 

“You’ll be fine. Be back in a minute.” And then she’s gone, leaving Clint alone with a snoring, thousand pound, heated blanket. If he could just. . .shift the kid’s weight a little, maybe he’d be able to feel his fingers again. Just a skosh, a little more—crap, the kid is moving! Clint sits frozen until he settles again, burrowed a little deeper into Clint’s arms. His head is still resting heavily against Clint’s shoulder, cutting off the circulation, but there’s no way to fix it now without waking the kid up.

 

A minute later, the door opens a little wider and a leg appears in the opening. Black jeans, combat boots—definitely not Nat. Clint cranes his neck up as best he can without disturbing the kid, to see the face. . . Crap, it’s Bucky. 

 

Clint nods in acknowledgement. Bucky doesn’t say anything (of course), but he does hold out a bottle of water, so Clint works a hand free to take it. Then he can’t get the lid off one-handed, so, after a minute of him fumbling around, Bucky takes it back, opens it with his gigantic metal fingers, and sticks it back in Clint’s hand.

 

“Thanks,” Clint whispers, then upends the bottle and takes a long drink. Oh, god that tastes good. Bucky still says nothing, just holds out a granola bar, even though both of Clint’s hands are otherwise occupied, so how the hell is he supposed to take it? Clint makes a helpless face. Bucky rolls his eyes and sits down on the floor right outside the closet, shoving the granola bar into the pocket of his hoodie. He’s not planning to try to come in, is he? He won’t fit as well as Nat did.

 

“Got a bottle in there for me to piss in?”

 

“That one,” Bucky grunts, gesturing to the bottle of water. Damn, _two_ jokes from Bucky? It’s some kinda miracle.

 

“Ha.” Clint tries to put the lid back on the bottle, and winces from the twinge in his dead shoulder. “Oh, god.”

 

“What?”

 

“My arm is asleep. This kid is heavier than he looks.”

 

“Want me to take him?”

 

“Hell no. Never wake a sleeping child, especially one whose tantrums can flood the city.”

 

Bucky’s mouth twists. He’s gazing at Thor’s profile with that soft expression again, like he had in the hallway after Hydra tried to snatch the kid. Clint wonders what he’s thinking. Are there words stuck in there somewhere? Would they fall out if Clint thumped him on the back? No, that’s a _very bad idea._ So he just waits, and eventually his patience is rewarded.

 

“Kinda freaked me out the way he looked at me,” Bucky says, in a soft, vulnerable voice. _Soft_ and _vulnerable_ were never words Clint expected to describe Bucky, but there it is in his voice. And in his eyes too—he’s picked up Steve’s sad bump. Clint thinks he’s going to say more, but he just sits there hugging his knees in silence. 

 

Finally Clint prompts, “How?”

 

“Like he didn’t know me.” 

 

Oh, yeah. That captures it. Shit. Clint opens his mouth to say some stupid platitude, some bullshit like, _‘he’ll be fine once he wakes up,’_ when Bucky continues, still in that soft voice, “I’ve been there. Everything flips upside down, and you suddenly realize the people you thought were friends are actually strangers.”

 

Clint blinks, because he _remembers_ that feeling, after Nat zapped him free of Loki’s spell. How lost he felt. How deep the pain of betrayal ran. He was lied to, made to believe he was on the side of justice and righteousness, and when he found out the truth, he could never ever trust Loki again. _Never_.

 

_Oh, god, is that how Thor feels right now?_

 

“What the hell do we tell him?” Clint says. “What can we say that he would believe?”

 

“Be straight with him.”

 

“You know he controls the weather, right?”

 

Bucky gives a little eyebrow shrug. “What else can we do? He already knows. Can’t put that genie back in the bottle.”

 

“Guess not. I’ll take that granola bar now.”

 

Bucky pulls the foil-wrapped bar out of his hoodie pocket and holds it out, inches away from Clint’s grasping fingers. Clint tries to stretch to take it, but his arm is dead. So dead. _Hurts_. 

 

Bucky huffs in amusement at Clint’s contorted face. So that’s what it takes to amuse him? Sits straight-faced through all Clint’s best jokes, but laughs at pain? “So that’s what you find funny?” Clint grumbles. “Yeah, hilarious. I’m in agony and you laugh.”

 

“You gotta admit you look pretty funny.” Bucky shoves the granola bar into Clint’s hand and reaches for the kid. “Here, lemme take him.” 

 

“No, I don’t want to wake him up.”

 

“He’s gonna wake up eventually.”

 

“Well, it’s better if—“ Aw shit, he feels Thor shift against him, then he lifts his head off Clint’s shoulder. Clint freezes and shoots Bucky an accusatory look. Bucky manages to send back the very picture of offended innocence. 

 

“Hey, pal, it’s all right,” Clint soothes, patting the kid gently on the back. He can’t hear any thunder yet, but that doesn’t mean it’s not coming. “Everything’s ok.”

 

Thor looks back and forth between Bucky and Clint with a dazed, half-asleep expression, like he’s not quite processing. His hair is spiky with dried sweat, and he has wrinkle lines and the imprint of a button from Clint’s shirt on his rosy cheek.

 

“You ok, Thor?” Clint asks, then has to watch Thor’s eyes go wary. Observant. He sticks the sleeve of the hoodie into his mouth and begins to chew on it. So they’re back to this shit, huh? All that trust that Clint has been carefully building for the last couple of weeks is _gone_ and they’re back to square one again. Except this time, Clint doesn’t know if there is anything left to rebuild.

 

“Is my famiwy reawwy dead?” Thor asks, in this lost little voice that breaks Clint’s heart. Clint glances at Bucky for help in answering, but Bucky looks even more lost than Thor, so he’s not going to be much help.

 

“Yes, Thor. I’m sorry,” Clint says gently, “I never meant to hurt you. I was trying to protect you.”

 

“How can dey be dead? What happened to dem?”

 

“Let’s all go talk in the common room, ok? Everyone else can meet us there.”

 

Thor, still chewing on his sleeve, doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t object either, so Clint tries to stand up. Yeah, no, that’s not gonna work. The whole right half of his body has gone almost completely numb. He can’t even push himself up to stand.

 

“Go see Bucky, ok?”

 

Thor chews on the hoodie sleeve and warily eyes Bucky, who holds out his hands with what is probably supposed to be a smile. “Hey, squirt, I gotcha,” he says in a pained voice, “C’mon, I gotcha.”

 

Although the kid doesn’t say anything, he does let Bucky take him without a struggle, which is almost worse, given how he usually fights to stay in Clint’s arms. His legs hang down limply, but one small fist curls into Bucky’s collar, his knuckles very white from the intensity of his grip. 

 

As Clint struggles to get up without using the right side of his body (ooh, pins and needles! OUCH), a silver hand suddenly appears in front of his face. He flinches involuntarily, which causes Bucky to huff in amusement again.

 

“I’m trying ta help you up, moron.”

 

Oh. Right. Of course. Clint grabs the metal hand with his left, and Bucky hauls him up to his feet like he weighs nothing. This is the first time Clint has ever actually touched Bucky’s metal arm, and even though he already knew it would be warm, it’s still a surprise to touch metal and have it feel like flesh. Very very firm flesh. With scales. Clint’s just gonna try not to think about it too much. That’s a good idea.

 

When Clint takes a step, a small piece of paper falls from his lap and flutters to the ground. He reaches down to pick it up (OUCH!) and discovers some indecipherable chicken scratches on the top, and then underneath, THOR written in all caps in a childish hand. The O is squashed and the R is backwards.

 

Clint tucks the piece of paper into his pocket to worry about later. On the way out of the anonymous empty office, he says, “Friday, have the team assemble in the common room, please, if you’re done with your reboot thing.”

 

“My system reboot cycle is complete, Mr. Barton,” Friday replies, “and I will inform the team.”

 

“Great, thanks.”

 

 

Outside, the thunder and lightning have let up, but the rain still pours down in sheets. The rest of the team are waiting when they get to the common room, arranged around the various couches and easy chairs. Even though they are all sitting back with fake smiles plastered on their faces, the tension in the room is palpable. Steve’s sad bump is on full display. Sam sits next to Steve, looking almost as distressed, even though this was not his fault (ok, it was kind of his fault, but Clint is going to try hard not to blame him for falling asleep on the job).

 

Oh, boy, they left the loveseat empty. How thoughtful. Clint can be mashed up against the armrest on one side and squished under Bucky’s elbow on the other. Very nice. That’s gonna be great for his slowly-reawakening arm and leg.

 

“Hi, Thor,” Steve says. Thor doesn’t say anything, just watches him warily. Steve takes a deep breath before continuing. “Thor, we’re very sorry we didn’t tell you the whole story. We should have told you earlier.”

 

Still the kid says nothing. He chomps hard on his sleeve while his little fingers twist in the sleeve of Bucky’s hoodie. Steve who is clearly chewing a hole in the inside of his cheek, licks his lips, glances anxiously at Clint, then Bucky, then back to Thor. He takes another deep breath, this one a bit shakier, and says, “You see, Thor, you—uh—you were a grown up, like us, but the bad guys did something to you that turned you into a child.”

 

“No, dat’s not fue!” Thor exclaims around the hunk of fabric in his mouth.

 

“Yes, it is the truth. We should have told you before.”

 

Thor turns to Clint, brow furrowed. “Is dat the foof, Cwint?”

 

 _Don’t smile at that don’t smile at that how the kid talks is not funny it’s not funny. . ._ “Yes, buddy, it’s. um. the truth.”

 

“I have pictures,” Steve says hastily, pulling out his phone. “Do you want to see them?”

 

“Yes, pwease.”

 

Thor leans in and watches while Steve flips through his photos until he finds one from about two months ago, of Steve and Thor standing together in the gym, both grinning as they watch an airborne Sam throw Clint around. Oh, yeah, that was a fun day. Clint’s ribs were sore for a week. Nice to see everyone else found it so amusing.

 

“See? This is you right here.”

 

Thor leans in closer to see. “Dat’s ME??” he says, eyes practically bugging out of his head.

 

“Yep.”

 

“I’m BIG!” 

 

Steve huffs out a chuckle. “Yes, that’s true.”

 

“I’m bigger dan YOU!”

 

“Yep.”

 

“I had BIG MUSSOS!”

 

Everyone in the room is struggling to hide their grins by this point, Clint included. Even Bucky looks like he’s got some sort of facial twitch going on. 

 

“Yes, you did,” Steve replies.

 

“My mussos was bigger dan YOURS!!”

 

Steve laughs. Honest-to-god laughs, like Clint hasn’t heard in weeks. God, that sounds good. 

 

“Yes, that’s true, buddy. You had the biggest muscles.”

 

“Was I a warrior?”

 

“Yes, you were a very strong warrior.”

 

“Den why isn’t my hair wong?”

 

Uhhhh. . . the half-hidden smiles disappear as they all exchange uneasy glances. “Do you think it should be long?” Steve asks finally, with the air of a man marching to the gallows.

 

“Yes,” Thor says earnestly, “warriors are ‘posta have wong hair.”

 

He looks around the room, obviously waiting for someone to explain it to him, but none of them know what to say, because they are all keenly aware of how upset Thor was about his non-consensual haircut. The first time they saw him after he came back, Sam attempted to touch his head and nearly got his arm snapped in two. No one dared mention the h-a-i-r again after that.

 

“Um—some bad people cut it,” Steve says reluctantly. His face scrunches up like he’s waiting for a lightning strike, but there’s nothing. The rain continues as before, but otherwise little Thor has no reaction to the loss of grown-up Thor’s hair, other than, “Oh.” Whew. That’s good. Maybe they’re through the worst of it then.

 

“What happened to my famiwy?”

 

Then again, maybe not. 

 

“Well, your parents. . . passed away a while ago.”

 

“Did you know dem?”

 

“No, we never met them.”

 

Thor’s head swivels around toward Clint. He’s got a puzzled expression on his little face. “Den how did you know the secret code words, Cwint?”

 

Clint gives a guilty start. He forgot all about that. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to make up a lie on the spot, so his mouth blurts out, “Um. . . I guessed.”

 

“You did??”

 

“Well, yes, but it was true that you were safe, and your father would want you to go with us.”

 

Thor doesn’t quite look satisfied with this answer. Clint’s sure he’ll hear all his toddler-logic theories later, but for now he turns back to Steve and says, “What is dis pwace?”

 

“You mean New York?”

 

Thor just looks puzzled, so Steve clarifies. “Earth.”

 

“Erf? Dat’s not one of the nine realms.”

 

“Your people called it Midgard,” Bruce puts in helpfully.

 

“Midgard? Dat’s a wong way away. What about the pawace and all my friends?”

 

“I’m sorry, Thor,” Bruce says gently, “it got destroyed.”

 

This seems to hit the kid even harder than learning his parents were dead. His fingers twist in the shoulder of Bucky’s hoodie while the rain beats harder on the windows. “De’troyed?” he says in an anguished voice, “How?”

 

“Um. . . a bad person hurt you and killed a lot of people,” Steve says without making eye contact. Good thing little Thor isn’t an expert at reading body language or he’d know that wasn’t the whole truth. The kid doesn’t need to know about his evil fratricidal sister.

 

“Did I cry?”

 

“Yes, Thor, we all cried a lot.”

 

Thor taps the screen of Steve’s phone, which still displays the picture of the two of them grinning at Clint’s pain. “But in dis picture I was ‘miwing. Why? Wasn’t I sad?”

 

“It happened a while ago,” Steve tells him, “you were still sad, but you started to smile again a little. That’s why we didn’t want to tell you the truth. We didn’t want you to be sad all over again.”

 

Little Thor frowns at the picture and says in a troubled voice, “Why don’t I bemember dat?”

 

“We’re not sure.”

 

After another minute of silent staring, Thor’s eyebrows suddenly go up and he sits up a little straighter. “What about Woki? Is he awive?” he asks hopefully.

 

“We’re—we’re not sure,” Steve hedges. “We haven’t seen him in a while.”

 

“You know him? Is he growed up too??”

 

“Yeah, buddy, we—uh. We know him,” Steve says, in the understatement of the year, “He’s grown up.”

 

“Maybe he’ll come back and get me someday,” Thor says, leaning back against Bucky’s chest. His eyes are filled with a hopeful innocence that breaks Clint’s heart. This Thor only knows Loki as his beloved brother. All the betrayals and hurts of centuries have been erased for him and only love remains. It’s not so easy for Clint. All Clint can think is that Loki better stay the hell away, because if he tries to take this kid, Clint will straight up murder him with his bare hands.

 

Thor, still leaning back against Bucky’s chest, manipulates one of Bucky’s enormous metal fingers with his small hand. “Until den, I can ‘tay here wif Cwint and Bucky. Dey will take good care of me. Right, Bucky?”

 

Bucky, whose face suddenly contorts like he’s trying not to cry, chokes out, “Yeah, squirt. We got you. You’re safe here.”

 

“Fank you, Bucky,” Thor says sweetly, patting Bucky’s arm like he’s trying to reassure him, and suddenly Clint is choking back tears too because _goddamn_ this kid still trusts them. He’s confronted with proof of their lies and betrayal, and he still chooses to trust. Just like he has done over and over with Loki.

 

No, that’s not the same at _all_. 

 

“Can we have some wunch now, Cwint?” Thor asks, holding out his arms to be picked up. “I want some dragon nuggets.”

 

“Sure, kiddo.” As Clint carries Thor back to his quarters, he has a sudden realization: Crap, this kid just took a NAP.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's going to be about three more chapters before Loki shows up, for those keeping track at home. And remember, I did say it's a cameo, right? In the meantime, lots more little Thor adorableness coming up. Still waiting for Bucky to get that melty-heart face. . .


	20. Uncuh Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Thor, the bounce-back kid! Takes a licking and keeps on ticking! Guaranteed! (Disclaimer: guarantee does not apply between the hours of 10 pm and 4 am.)

* * *

 

Clint puts on his pajamas that night in the bathroom with the door open and Thor sitting right outside. Thor only lets him go into the bathroom alone under the condition that Clint keeps at least one body part visible in the open doorway.

 

“I’m not gonna disappear, you know. There is literally only one way out of the bathroom. I can’t get away without you seeing me.”

 

“Dat’s what I fought about my famiwy too, Cwint.”

 

* _Sigh_ * “Ok, fine.”

 

So Clint keeps the door open, and waves his hand in the doorway, and sticks his head out and plays peek-a-boo while making silly faces, trying to make the kid laugh, which doesn’t work at all. Thor just gazes at him solemnly and says, “Are you coming out soon? I need to ‘nuggoh you.”

 

“I’ll be done in a minute, kiddo. Just hang tight.”

 

“I’m not hanging, Cwint. I’m sitting on the fwoor.”

 

“Ok, then sit tight.”

 

“I don’t know how to sit tight.”

 

“Ok, then just sit.”

 

There is something in his jeans pocket, something paper, and when he pulls it out, he discovers the scrap that had the chicken scratches on it, the one that Thor had been holding when he found out THE TRUTH. Clint holds the paper out through the open doorway.

 

“Hey, Thor, what’s this?”

 

“Dat’s my name. Sam showed me how to write it in your writing.”

 

Clint pulls on his comfy shorts and goes out to the hallway, where Thor is sitting hugging his knees. The kid immediately hops up and holds out his arms to be picked up, which Clint does.

 

“What’s this writing at the top?”

 

“Dat’s my name in my writing. See, it says ‘Four.’”

 

No, Clint doesn’t see, but he’ll take Thor’s word for it. “That’s great, Thor! How about if we put this on the refrigerator?”

 

“Why we should put it on the frefrigerarator?"

 

“To show it off, because you did good work and learned something new.”

 

“Ok, Cwint. Are you proud of me?”

 

“I sure am.”

 

“Dat’s good. I want you to be proud of me, now dat my mother isn’t here to do dat.”

 

Clint takes his time selecting a magnet because his eyes are stinging and he doesn’t trust his voice right now. After a minute, he clears his throat and says brightly, “Ok, pal, put the paper right there on the fridge and we’ll put this magnet on it to keep it up.”

 

With a very serious expression, Thor silently places the paper on front of the fridge, taking care to make sure it’s straight. Clint sticks the magnet on top and stands back so they can see the effect. “There, that looks good, right?”

 

“Yes, dat wooks good. I fink so too. Do you fink Sam can teach me more of your writing? Sam is a good teacher.”

 

“I’m sure he’ll be happy to.”

 

“I gotta wearn it if I’m gonna wiv here on Midgard foreber.”

 

Clint doesn’t have anything to say about that, so he just hugs the kid tighter and changes the subject. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

 

“Are you going to watch a mobie? I want to do whateber you’re doing.”

 

_Of course you do, kiddo._

 

* * *

 

Can't have nightmares if you don’t SLEEP, right? Ha ha HA!

 

At three a.m., Clint is still awake debunking toddler theories. Thor has _so many_ toddler theories that night, sitting up in bed hugging his knobby knees, while the non-stop rain patters on the windows.

 

“Is dis reawwy Midgard?”

 

“Yes. Did you expect something different?”

 

“My father says the peopoh on Midgard are bar-bar-bar—sabages.”

 

Clint can’t quite suppress a snort. “Savages, huh? Do you think we’re savages?”

 

“No. You got awesome ‘tuff wike fucks and pop-parps, and nobody has fied to eat me here.”

 

“Well, that’s good.”

 

“Except I don’t wike the wedder.”

 

“Weather?”

 

“Yes. Dere’s wots of rain here.”

 

“Um. . .”

 

“And I’m ‘cared of the wightning and funder, too.”

 

“. . . Thor. . . um. . . _You_ are making the lightning and thunder.”

 

“No I’m not!”

 

“Yes, buddy, you are. I know you don’t mean to, but you are controlling the weather.”

 

“Dat’s siwwy, Cwint. I can’t make wightning and funder.”

 

“. . . Ok. Whatever you say.”

 

Thor sits staring holes in the bedspread with his chin resting on his knees. His eyes slide almost closed, and Clint hopes he is finally falling asleep, but then he goes and spoils it by saying, “You know Woki?”

 

“Um, yeah, we’ve met,” Clint replies reluctantly.

 

“Do you know where he is?”

 

Oh, good, a question he can answer truthfully. “No, I don’t know.” _And I don’t care either, as long as he stays far away from here._

 

“Did he come to Midgard wif me?”

 

“Um. . . not exactly.”

 

“But he did come to Midgard?”

 

“. . . Yes.”

 

“Why? Was he wooking for me?”

 

“No, he. . . um. . . he had other ideas.”

 

“What udder ideas?” Thor’s eyes are wide open now, no longer half-asleep. Dammit.

 

 _To take over the world._ “I don’t know. Look, Thor, it’s late. How about we go to sleep now?”

 

“My eyes don’t want to sweep. What about my mother?”

 

 _Sigh_. “What about her?”

 

“What happened to her?”

 

“She. . . she died. I’m sorry, buddy.”

 

“I don’t under’tand how she could jus’ get dead. Did someone kill her?”

 

“Yes, I guess so.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Some bad people.”

 

“Who?”

 

“I don’t know, buddy.”

 

“I fink it was the same bad peopoh who hurt me. Did dey hurt Woki too?”

 

“No, it definitely wasn’t them. They never went to Asgard. And no, they didn’t hurt Loki.”

 

“How did Asgard bwow up?”

 

Well, shit, that’s going to be hard to explain. Clint can’t exactly just tell the kid “you did it.” Can he?

 

“It. . .um. . . I’m not sure exactly.”

 

“Did the fro’t giants de’troy it?”

 

“No, not them.”

 

“Den who did it??”

 

“Um. . .I’m not really sure what happened, to be honest.”

 

“Maybe it was the dark elbs.”

 

“Dark elbs?”

 

“ _Elbs_. From ‘Bartohfheim. Dey don’t wike us. I bet dey did it.”

 

“Sure. Why not.”

 

That issue apparently decided, Thor segues back to, “Do you fink Woki knows where I am?”

 

Oh, god, Clint doesn’t want to talk about Loki. Really really doesn’t want to talk about Loki. Please just—

 

“I fink he doesn’t know. If he knew, he would come get me. Can you tell him?”

 

“I—uh—I don’t know how to contact him. I don’t know where he is, remember?”

 

“Oh.” Thor puts his chin back on his knees and plucks at the bedspread, eyebrows knitted together in distress.

 

“I fink Woki is wonewy wifout me. He always fowwows me and wants to be wif me.”

 

“He does, huh?”

 

“Yes. I don’t mind. I wuv Woki and I want to be wif him too.”

 

Any icy fist has wrapped itself around Clint’s windpipe. “What if—what if things are different now?” he chokes out.

 

Thor’s head comes up and he gazes innocently at Clint with those guileless bright blue eyes. “Fings could neber be different. Woki is my brudder and I will always wuv him foreber. Maybe he will find me someday and take me wif him.”

 

 _He’d better fucking not_ , is all Clint can think. His hands clench unconsciously into fists. He’s not even aware of how his face must look until the kid says, “Cwint? Did I say somefing wrong?”

 

“No, kiddo, it’s not you. I’m sorry.”

 

The next thing he knows, Thor is crawling into his lap and patting his warm hands against Clint’s cheeks. “Are you sad, Cwint?”

 

“Um. . . maybe a little. It’s not your fault, though.”

 

“We can do dat ‘mewwing fing. Dat will help you feel better.” Thor presses his nose to Clint’s jaw and sniffs loudly. Immediately his body molds to Clint’s and all his tight little muscles soften.

 

Clint’s yawn is interrupted by a chuckle. “It’ll make me feel better, huh?”

 

“Yes. I can hear you waughing. I wike dat.” Thor holds out his little hand, palm down, waiting for Clint to start the “‘mewwing fing.” Clint puts his hand under Thor’s, palm up, but he’s still thinking about Loki and _trauma_ and how Thor still loves Loki no matter what fucked up ways Loki betrays him, and now Clint’s got a picture in his head of a little boy chained to a wall of a dungeon until he wets his pants and. . . _shit_ , he doesn’t _want_ to feel sorry for Loki!

 

“Cwint? You’re ‘posta ‘tart wif five.”

 

“Oh, right.” Clint clears his throat and tries to clear his mind to focus on what he sees around him, but that picture of the little boy chained to the dungeon wall won’t leave him alone. “You start this time.”

 

“Ok. Five.”

 

 _Breathe_. See what’s around him. Don’t see little Loki’s tear-streaked face. Don’t see him crawling into Thor’s bed because he’s scared at night. Don’t see him following little Thor around like a puppy desperate for affection. God _dammit_. 

 

* * *

 

Oh, boy, four a.m. already? Fun times!

 

* * *

 

Thor. bounces. back. Seriously, by breakfast the next morning, it’s like none of the shit from the day before ever happened. Except. . .

 

“Cwint, carry me into the kitchen.”

 

“Cwint, I need to sit on your wap while I eat.”

 

“Cwint, go wif me and ‘Teve to the gym.”

 

“Cwint, carry me to the gym.”

 

“Cwint, jump on the fampowine wif me.”

 

“Cwint, frow me into the air!”

 

“Cwint, catch me!!”

 

“Cwint, come sit in the wibing room while I pway.”

 

“Cwint, sit on the fwoor and pway wif me. Here, you can have dat fuck and I’ll have dis one.”

 

“Cwint, sit in the big chair wif me. I need to ‘nuggoh wif you under my bwanket.”

 

Yeah, like that. Alone time is a thing of the past, at least for now, because he’s got a sweaty little furnace attached his side twenty-four/seven. Clint’s giving serious thought to getting a backpack to carry the kid around in, because damn his arms are tired.

 

* * *

 

_Text from Laura_

 

_How are things going?_

 

**Could be better. Thor found out the truth**

 

_Oh dear. How did he take it? I didn’t see anything about the city flooding_

 

**He was pretty upset at first, but now he’s acting fine, mostly, except he’s glued to me. Barely lets me put him down.**

 

_Why don’t you bring him out here? We’d love to love on him for a while_

 

**Define “a while.”**

 

_As long as we need to. I’m serious._

 

**I think we could start with a short visit, just to see how things go.**

 

_When?_

 

**I don’t know. How’s next week?**

 

_Let’s me consult my calendar. . . nope, absolutely nothing planned. Looking forward to it! Maybe you and I can get some time alone together?_

 

**We’ll have 4 kids in the house. I wouldn’t count on it.**

 

* * *

 

Thor always waits until bedtime to trot out the existential crises. Tonight it’s “Who are you?” As in, “This person who has taken me in and whose bed I sleep in every night, who exactly is he?”

 

“Did we know each udder when I was big?”

 

“Yes, we did.”

 

“Were we friends?”

 

“Yes, you could say that. Teammates and friends.”

 

“Did I wiv here, when I was big?”

 

“What, here in the tower?”

 

“Here in dis room. Did I sweep wif you?”

 

“Um. No.”

 

“Where did I sweep?”

 

“You have your own apartment, on a different floor. I’ll show it to you sometime if you want.”

 

“I don’t want to wiv by myself. I want to ‘tay wif you. Can I ‘till sweep in your bed?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“The girl at the pwayground fought you were my daddy. But you’re not my daddy.”

 

“No, I’m not your daddy.”

 

“Den what _are_ you?”

 

“I’m your friend, like I said.”

 

Little Thor frowns, clearly unsatisfied with that designation. “You take care of me wike a daddy. My father doesn’t—didn’t wet us call him daddy.”

 

 _And he didn’t take care of you like a daddy either, did he?_ “I’m not sure I want you to call me daddy either, but—how about Uncle?”

 

“I can call you uncuh?”

 

“If you want to. Sure.”

 

“Yes,” Thor says solemnly, “I want to call you Uncuh Cwint.”

 

“Ok, then Uncle Clint it is.”

 

“What about Bucky? Can I call him Uncuh Bucky?”

 

“I can’t speak for him. You’ll have to ask him about that.” _And I will videotape it._

 

“Can you ask him?”

 

“No, you have to do that yourself.”

 

“What if he says no and goes away foreber?”

 

“I don’t think he’ll do that. He’ll probably be ok with it, but you decide if you want to ask him.”

 

Thor brushes the bear’s ear under his nose contemplatively. “I will have to fink ‘bout dat.”

 

“You think about that while we go to sleep, ok? It’s late and I’m tired.”

 

“Ok, Uncuh Cwint. Uncuh Cwint?” Thor says while he’s arranging the cape over both of them like a giant heating pad. Clint’s got on shorts and a tank top, and he’ll still probably wake up in a puddle of sweat.

 

“Um. Yes, Thor?”

 

“Can we weave the hall wight on tonight pwease? Dat way I can see dat you are ‘till dere if I wake up wayter.”

 

 _Sigh_. “Sure, we can leave the hall light on. Why not?”

 

* * *

 

 _Fucking nightmares._ It’s the all-night Thor terror program, now playing at eleven p.m., one a.m., and NEW three a.m. showing! Special effects include THUNDER, _lightning_ , and unintelligible screaming! Luckily Clint’s getting pretty good at finding Thor in the bed and snuggling him back to sleep without ever fully waking up. 

 

In the morning, Thor sits on the counter criss-cross and recaps the previous night’s episodes while Clint sleep-walks his way through heating up the pop-tarts.

 

“Woki turned me into a sawamander and a fro’t giant fied to eat me.”

 

“That’s nice, buddy.”

 

“But I had a big hammer and I could fwy. Den a bad wady wif big antwers ‘mashed my hammer.”

 

Clint pauses in taking the Pop-tarts out of the toaster. “Antlers, huh?”

 

“Yes. It was ‘cary.”

 

“Sounds like it.” That sounds a little too similar to stories Clint’s heard before (not from Thor, of course—Big Thor had been remarkably close-lipped about everything they had endured—but from Bruce). While Clint’s blowing on the Pop-tarts to cool them down enough for an impatient Thor to eat, he’s thinking he’ll have to ask Bruce to tell him the details again.

 

Thor continues, as if he doesn’t find that dream any more surprising than the rest, “And a worak ‘tealed my mifreo.”

 

“Um. . . a worak?”

 

“No, a WORAK.”

 

“A lorak?”

 

“No, a WORAK!”

 

“A lorax?”

 

Thor sighs and rests his chin on his fists. “You don’t under’tand.”

 

“I’m sorry, buddy. I’m tired.” Clint hands Thor a Pop-tart and the kid perks up considerably.

 

“Dat’s ok, Uncuh Cwint. We can go jump on the fampowine. Dat will help you wake up.”

 

Oh boy.

 

* * *

 

Bucky has apparently adopted a “no-knock” policy when it comes to Clint’s apartment, which Clint finds both amusing and terrifying in equal measure. On the one hand, it’s all kinds of adorable to walk into his living room after his first shower in four days, and find an ex-Soviet assassin and a tiny god of thunder sitting on the floor together building what looks like maybe the Taj Mahal out of Legos (and the fact that Clint snaps at least three pictures before they notice he’s there is just the frosting on the cake).

 

 On the other hand, it’s all kinds of terrifying to be trying to wash the dishes and have an ex-Soviet assassin flop down in one of the kitchen chairs, kick back and put his boots up on the only other chair like he owns the place.

 

_Yes take a seat Bucky Barnes, DO YOU LIVE HERE NOW??_

 

Well, as long as Bucky’s hanging around, Clint’s going to try again to offer him a beer. At least this time Bucky’s got his hair tied back so Clint can see both eyes now. Actually, maybe that’s not better, cuz Bucky's thousand yard stare is intimidating as hell. _Just be casual. . ._  

 

Clint wipes his hand on a filthy dishtowel, takes two beers from the fridge and holds one out to Bucky, who stares at it blank-faced. “Do you. . .I mean, can you. . . I mean, Steve says. . .” _Smooth, Barton, real smooth_. “I mean, here. Have a beer.”

 

Bucky takes it. Yay!

 

At about that moment, Clint remembers that his bottle opener is in the box with the playdoh. Crap. As he’s digging around in the drawer trying to find a suitable substitute, he hears a pop and hiss of Bucky’s bottle opening. He looks around to see Bucky pulling the cap off with his metal hand. While he’s standing there staring, Bucky takes Clint’s bottle and does the same thing, and that is the first time Clint’s ever been jealous of Bucky’s arm.

 

“You’re gonna catch flies like that,” Bucky says, putting the bottle back into Clint’s hand.

 

Clint shuts his mouth. “Right. Sorry.” _Don’t look at the arm don’t mention the arm pretend the arm doesn’t exist. . ._

 

“It’s useful for some things,” Bucky says, shrugging nonchalantly. He clinks his bottle against Clint’s, leans back in his chair again, and takes a swig. After a minute, Clint recovers enough to take a drink too. He’s having a beer with Bucky Barnes! Like they’re friends! Wait. . . are they friends? What do friends talk about? More than just small talk. Clint’s good at small talk. It’s when he tries to do the deeper shit that he ends blurting out something idiotic.

 

Clint’s stupid mouth, of course, says the first thing that pops into his head. “Did you. . . uh. . .go see the doc?”

 

_You had to start right out with that, huh? Well, so long, Bucky Barnes. Nice to be friends with you for the past five minutes._

 

“Yeah.”

 

Bucky actually answered him! It’s a goddamn miracle. “Yeah? Good. That’s good. That cradle is the shit.” 

 

Bucky doesn’t respond to that. Clint takes an awkward drink to cover the fact that he doesn’t know what to say next. While he’s thinking, he gets out a package of Oreos and sets them on the table within reach of Bucky’s metal hand. Then he leans back against the counter and tries to act relaxed. Maybe he could say something about the Dodgers? That worked last time.

 

“You got the name of that shrink?” Bucky asks before Clint can call up any of his meager background info about baseball. Bucky’s metal fingers dig into the package and pull out three Oreos, which disappear into his mouth all at once.

 

“Oh! Yeah, I have her card. Um. . .” Clint digs around in the pile on the end of his kitchen counter until he comes up with Dr. Torgenson’s card. “Here,” he says, holding it out to Bucky. “You’ll like her. She’s really good.”

 

Bucky swallows the cookies. “Nah, not for me, man. For Stevie.” He takes a long drink and wipes his mouth with the back of his flesh hand.

 

Clint chokes on his beer. “For Stevie—for Steve?”

 

“Yeah. He’s driving me crazy,” Bucky says, tucking the card into the pocket of his hoodie. “Every other sentence starts with ‘What if?’”

 

Clint can’t help but laugh at that, because yes, that does indeed sound like Steve. “When he was little I’d just sit on him,” Bucky continues with his mouth twisted into what might have been a half-suppressed grin, “But now. Fuck.” His voice goes up an octave in obvious imitation of Steve, “‘What if they can’t fix ya, Buck? What if I accidentally say the code words??’ How the fuck you gonna do that, ya moron?” Bucky flings his arms out with that last sentence and sloshes some of his beer on the floor. “Sorry.”

 

“No problem. You ever think about telling him what—you know—what happened to you?”

 

Bucky shakes his head ruefully. “He doesn’t want to know.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“He never asked, did he? Anyway, what should I tell? Ain’t nothing good. It’s all fucked up.”

 

Bucky definitely has a point there, but Clint can’t help but think the situation would be improved at least somewhat if Bucky would just _open his mouth_ and talk about it with Steve. Knowing the truth, even if it was bad, might help take the edge off some of those fears. But before he can formulate how to tell Bucky that without scaring him away, Thor comes tearing in from the living room.

 

“Uncuh Cwint, WOOK!” He holds up a misshapen lump of Legos. “I maked a FUCK!” As Clint is turning the lump over to discover that it indeed has wheels, Thor spots the cookies on the table. Next thing Clint knows, Thor has abandoned the Legos and is shoving Oreos into his mouth like he’s starving, even though Clint knows the kid ate six chocolate chip Pop-tarts not more than two hours ago.

 

“Are you fixing wunch?” he asks through a mouthful of cookie crumbs. “Me and Bucky want dragon nuggets!”

 

“Is that so?” Clint says wryly, mussing his hair, which is sticky again. “You want dragon nuggets, Bucky?”

 

“I’ll eat anything,” Bucky says, apparently content to stay for lunch. Of course he is. If Thor is a Hoover, Bucky is a trash compactor. Clint mentally triples the amount of nuggets he was planning to cook.

 

“Yay!” Thor cries. “DRAGON NUGGETS! DRAGON NUGGETS!” He reaches for more cookies, but Bucky puts his hand over the package to block him, so he dashes out of the room again empty-handed.

 

“How ‘bout some broccoli too, squirt?” Bucky calls into the living room after him.

 

“NO FANK YOU BUCKY!”

 

Bucky turns back to Clint. “You’re coddling that kid,” he chides in a transparent attempt to change the subject. “He needs to learn how to take care of himself. Eat a damn vegetable once in a while.”

 

“Yeah, great idea. Good luck getting him to do it. Love and security, remember?”

 

“Counterpoint: rickets.”

 

“He’s not gonna get rickets.”

 

The corner of Bucky’s mouth tugs up. “Scurvy.”

 

Clint snorts. “Tell you what, I’ll forcefeed the kid limes if you talk to Steve.”

 

“Shit. Forget it. This is why I don’t talk, you know.”

 

“Uh huh.” Clint sticks his head into the living room and beckons Thor over. “Hey, pal, did you want to ask Bucky your question?” he asks the kid quietly.

 

Suddenly Thor is hugging his bear again, looking very nervous. “Now?”

 

“Well, he’s here now. Seems like as good a time as any.”

 

Thor follows Clint into the kitchen, where he stands in the doorway chewing his lip and rubbing the bear’s ear against his nose. “Bucky?” he says finally, with an anxious lilt to his voice. 

 

Bucky puts down his beer and gives him his full attention, which is probably more intimidating that he was intending. “Yeah, squirt?” Clint surreptitiously pulls out his phone and hits the record button.

 

Thor glances at Clint, who puts his hand over his phone to hide it. “I need to aks you a question.” 

 

“What?”

 

Next thing Clint knows, Thor is standing in front of Bucky with his arms raised, obviously wanting to be picked up. Bucky looks surprised, but he picks the kid up under the armpits and sets him in his lap. “What’s up?”

 

“Bucky. . .”

 

“. . . Yeah?”

 

Thor glances at Clint again, who nods encouragingly. Go ahead, kid. How bad can it be? “Can I call you Uncuh Bucky?”

 

Bucky:

 

Bucky sits and stares at Thor for so long that Clint starts to get nervous. Here Clint told the kid it would be fine to ask, and now Bucky is gonna say no and break his heart. Thor watches Bucky’s face with anxious, temperature-taking eyes.

 

Finally, Clint sees Bucky’s adam’s apple bob up and down in a hard swallow. His eyes look a little shiny. Is the battle-hardened ex-assassin getting choked up?? Oh, this is good. Clint angles his phone to make sure Bucky’s face shows in the video.

 

“Uh. . .” (another hard swallow) “. . . yeah, squirt. Sure you can.”

 

Thor’s face clears and his mouth widens in a huge grin. “I can?!”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Fank you, Uncuh Bucky!”

 

“Yeah.” Bucky’s not exactly smiling—he looks a little dazed. Clint is going to give him so much shit for this. So. much. shit.

 

Thor’s eyes cut to the cookies that are still on the table, then he folds his little hands under his chin and gazes up at Bucky with the most adoring expression Clint has ever seen. “Uncuh Bucky?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“May I pwease have anudder cookie?” Thor says sweetly, batting his long eyelashes.

 

Bucky is completely overmatched.  Automatically he digs into the package of Oreos and hands two to Thor, who takes them and clutches them to his chest. “Fank you, Uncuh Bucky!” He squirms down off Bucky’s lap and scampers off to the living room with his prize still clutched to his chest. _How does it feel to lose so hard, Bucky? HOW DOES IT FEEL??_

 

Clint slides his phone back into his pocket, folds his arms and watches in amusement as Bucky looks down at the nearly empty package of cookies, then at the door, then back at the cookies like he isn’t even sure what just happened.

 

“You were saying?” Clint says wryly.

 

“Shut up.”

 

* * *

 

**Text to Tony**

**How’s it going?**

 

_Just dandy. You?_

 

**I mean with your project**

 

_Oh, that. Yeah. Nothing. Nada. Bupkis_

 

_Is that you spell that word? It looks funn_ **y**

 

**I have no idea. So no progress then?**

 

_Believe me, if we had made any progress, I’d be shouting it from the rooftops. Well, not really since baby Thor is a s-e-c-r-e-t, but you can be sure you’d know about it ASAP_

 

**So if I wanted to take Thor to the farm for a while, we wouldn’t be missing anything?**

 

_Sounds like fun. Knock yourself out. Go dig in the dirt and play with power tools for a while, just don’t mess up my tractor. Bring me back some homegrown blueberries_

 

* * *

 

_Text from Steve_

_Are you up for a mission?_

 

**When? Now? You may recall I’ve got a little sidekick now**

 

_Monday. We can find a babysitter_

 

**He’s glued to my side. The only substitute he’ll accept is Bucky**

 

_That’s a good idea_

 

**That’s a terrible idea. I can’t turn those two loose together for an extended period of time. They’d destroy the fabric of space-time. Or at least the tower**

 

_It would be a short mission, not even overnight. You and Natasha, just a quick recon and some light burglary_

 

**Ooh burglary. Now you’re speaking my language**

 

 _Does that mean you’ll do it?_  

 

**Ok, yes if Bucky agrees to babysit**

 

**. . .**

 

_I just asked him. He said yes_

 

Ok, so maybe Clint’s not going to the farm just yet. Maybe the next week, after this mission. 

 

* * *

 

Thor sits cross-legged on the bathroom counter while Clint gets ready for his mission. His arms are wrapped tightly around his Bucky Bear and his sad blue eyes follow Clint’s hands as he wrestles with the stupid bowtie. Left over right? Or is it right over left? Being left-handed and dyslexic is a big fucking disadvantage sometimes. Why couldn’t Steve have warned him he would be wearing a goddamn monkey suit for this job? Because Clint woulda told him to go to hell, that’s why.

 

Finally he gets it tied, although it’s still not straight. Good enough. Natasha can fix it in the car. Next come the cufflinks, which he can’t get to go through the little buttonholes with his fat fingers. While Clint is fighting with the cufflink, Thor pipes up, “Why do you hafta weave?”

 

“It’s just a short mission, kiddo.” Clint fumbles the cufflink into the sink where it nearly goes down the drain before he can grab it.

 

“Why can’t ‘Teve go? Ssss-teve.”

 

“It’s undercover ops.” Finally the little cufflink goes through the hole and pops out the other side. _Ha, I win!_

 

“What’s dat?”

 

“Um. . . sneaking in by pretending to be someone else,” Clint says distractedly as he fumbles with the other cufflink. “Steve’s not very good at it. He kinda sticks out like a sore thumb.

 

Thor sticks up his thumb and frowns at it. “Sore fumb? What does dat mean?”

 

“It means he won’t be able to fit in.” Stupid cufflink! It won’t go through the stupid hole either. You are shit, cufflink. 

 

“‘Teve can’t ‘neak in?”

 

“People will recognize him. He can’t go, so I have to.”

 

“I don’t want you to go eider.”

 

“I have to, pal.”

 

“Can I go wif you?”

 

“No buddy, grown ups only. It’s not safe for you.” _Fucking cufflink. Just go through the goddamn hole! The hole is your home, cufflink! Are you too good for your home??_

 

 

“Den it’s not safe for you eider,” Thor pouts. 

 

“I’ll have Natasha with me. She’ll keep me safe. Here, can you help me with this, buddy? Just put it right through there.” Clint holds the cufflink out to Thor, who takes it reluctantly and pushes it through the hole. Little fingers are useful sometimes.

 

“Thanks, kiddo. Good work.” Clint hopes Thor will brighten up with the compliment, but he still looks dejected, so Clint picks him up and sets him on his hip. “Look, I won’t be gone long, just one evening. I’ll be back before you wake up in the morning.”

 

Thor’s stubby fingers play with the edges of the bowtie. “What if you get dead?” he says in a forlorn voice. “My mother and father were ‘tronger dan you are and dey got dead.”

 

“I won’t get dead.”

 

Thor gazes up at Clint with big troubled eyes. “Promise?”

 

Clint feels like he is treading on very thin ice here. On the one hand, Thor has been abandoned and betrayed so many times, he needs some stability to feel secure. He needs reassurance that the one consistent person in his life right now is planning to come back. On the other hand, If he promises Thor he’ll be safe and something bad happens, this poor kid will feel betrayed once again. “I promise I’ll be as careful as possible, ok?” Clint hedges, “I don’t want to get dead either.”

 

Next thing Clint knows, Thor is rubbing the Bucky bear over Clint’s chin and up and down his neck. 

 

“What are you doing?” Clint asks, amused.

 

“I want the bear to ‘mell wike your shabing ‘tuff so when I miss you, I can ‘niff it.”

 

“That’s. . . insanely sweet, buddy.” Clint can’t help but pull the kid in for a hug, which Thor returns, so tight Clint can barely breathe.

 

“I’m gonna rub my bear on Bucky too. Den it will ‘mell reeeawwwy good.”

 

Clint laughs. “Great idea, pal.”


	21. Uncuh Cwint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint is worried about leaving Little Thor in Bucky's tender loving care. He should've been more worried about himself. Parkour is not his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hot dang, this chapter got looooong. Still at least one more chapter to go, maybe two, before Loki shows up, for those keeping track at home.

* * *

 

 

Thor is clinging to the back of Bucky’s pantleg with the corner of the cape stuffed in his mouth as Clint leaves the apartment. He has his head tipped down, but he’s looking up at Clint through his lashes, and his poor little face is so forlorn that Clint has to look away. He’s already said goodbye three times, and he knows Natasha is waiting for him in the limo, but he can’t leave until he’s sure Bucky knows what to do, and so far Bucky’s responses aren’t inspiring confidence.

 

“There are more Pop-tarts in the communal kitchen if you run out,” Clint tells Bucky, who has his metal hand on the door waiting to close it as soon as Clint moves out of the way.

 

“How the fu—heck we gonna run outta Pop-tarts before you get back?”

 

“I’m just trying to prevent any possible problems. The chicken nuggets need one and a half minutes in the microwave. Just push the one minute button, then add thirty seconds.”

 

Thor is making a sad little snuffling sound as he chomps on the corner of the cape. Maybe Clint should reassure him one more time?

 

“You told me that already.”

 

“I’m just making sure you know how to do it.”

 

“I can figure it out. We’ll be fine.”

 

“Bedtime is 8:30. Well, usually it’s more like 9:30, but it’s supposed to be 8:30.”

 

“I got it.”

 

“But don’t expect him to go to sleep right away. And he’ll fight you on the toothbrushing but try to do it anyway. Don’t use the flouride toothpaste because he swallows it.”

 

“Clint, we’ll be fine, ok? Just go already.”

 

“Ok, ok, you got it. Ok. Fine.” Clint takes a step back, out of the doorway. He is about to say goodbye to Thor again, but Bucky shuts the door firmly in his face. They’ll be fine, right? Even though it’s starting to rain outside? Clint can’t help but worry—how will Bucky handle it if Thor has a meltdown? Will he be able to get him calmed down quickly enough to prevent a flood? What if—god forbid—Bucky tries to get Thor to eat a *gasp* vegetable? What will Bucky do when Thor inevitably wakes up crying from a nightmare? He doesn’t know how to snuggle the kid properly. This is a mistake. A big fucking mistake.

 

* * *

 

In retrospect, Clint shoulda been more worried about himself. Parkour is a bad idea when you’re on the far side of 45, which he shoulda realized before he followed Natasha in jumping from one balcony to another, but whatever. He’s fine. Those ribs are probably only cracked. He’s had worse. He just needs to rest, that’s all. They say you’re as young as you feel, right? Well, right now, Clint feels about eighty. He needs a shower and a nap, in that order.

 

Clint opens the door to his apartment slowly so it doesn’t creak, which turns out to be a good thing, given the fact that Thor’s scooter is lying just inside blocking the door. All the lights are blazing, even though it’s after midnight. Clint blinks in the glare. _Headache_. What’s that noise? Ah, the TV is also on, with the theme song to Cars 2 playing in a loop over the menu.

 

Clint takes two steps into the living room and steps on something sticky. He looks down to discover an orange wet patch next to an overturned plastic cup. Oh, orange juice on the carpet. Nice. Is that ketchup on the couch? Or blood? Judging by the plates on the couch covered in crumbs and partially congealed red globs, it’s ketchup, so that’s a relief, he supposes. 

 

Goddamn, why is it so fucking cold in here? Clint stumbles to the wall, tripping over Bucky’s enormous boots and several trucks on the way, and turns up the thermostat without even looking at the temperature because he’s distracted by the pieces of broken glass piled haphazardly on the kitchen counter. Vase, maybe? Or drinking glass? Whatever, who cares? Clint sweeps it all into the trash with his left arm because he can’t quite raise his right.

 

The kitchen looks like a poltergeist has taken up residence there. Or maybe there was some sort of nuclear spill. Crumbs cover every horizontal surface and even a few of the vertical ones. Something brown and sticky is smeared on the front of the cabinets—Clint isn’t sure he wants to know what that is, but at least it smells ok. Kind of chocolately, so probably ice cream. 

 

Where the hell is Bucky? Clint expected him to be brooding on the couch, but nope. The hall light is on, so Clint limps that direction toward the bedrooms. His bedroom door is open and empty, but the door to the kids’ bedroom is mostly closed and the light is off, which means Bucky and Thor are both in there?

 

Holding his aching ribs with one hand, Clint slowly pushes open the door to the kids’ bedroom and squints into the darkness. After a few seconds his eyes adjust enough that he can make out a couple of lumps on Lila’s bed, the one with the purple and pink striped bedspread: Thor sprawled out on his back with knees akimbo and his arms thrown up over his head; and Bucky curled up on his left side along the edge of mattress, head at an awkward angle, flesh arm across Thor’s belly and metal arm wrapped around the top of the pillow. The Bucky bear is snuggled in against Bucky’s chest. They are both half-covered in the cape, but Bucky’s bare foot is sticking out, probably in a vain attempt to cool off. Clint knows that feeling. 

 

Clint tiptoes closer to the bed and sees that Thor’s mouth is ringed with what he hopes is chocolate ice cream, which means he probably didn’t brush his teeth tonight.

 

Despite the pain, Clint manages to extract his phone from his pocket. He turns off the flash and snaps a half-dozen pictures from different angles using the light leaking in from the hallway. Then he cocks his head at them and considers how to wake Bucky up without getting his throat cut. The only answer he can come up with is “from across the room”, so he backs up to the doorway, where he can more easily escape if Bucky comes after him.

 

“Bucky,” he calls quietly. The guy doesn’t stir.

 

“Buuuuucky,” he tries again, only a little bit louder. This time Bucky grunts and shifts his head. His fingers curl into the hem of Thor’s shirt, but he still doesn’t wake up.

 

Aw, screw it. “Bucky!”

 

This time Bucky wakes up with a start, but instead of going for a knife, he falls backwards off the far side of the bed and lands with an undignified squawk on the floor. Thor rolls to his side and wraps his arms around the Bucky bear, but keeps sleeping, luckily.

 

“Bucky? You ok?” Clint whispers. Bucky sits up, blinking. Clint keeps his distance, because who knows what a half-awake Bucky will do? Hell, Clint can’t even predict what a fully-awake Bucky will do half the time.

 

Bucky rubs his eyes, then looks around sleepily until he spots Clint in the doorway. “Oh,” he grunts, pushing himself to his feet. Watching Bucky stumble around trying to get his balance makes Clint want to giggle, but giggling hurts so he restrains himself. Also he doesn’t want to get killed. So there’s another reason not to laugh.

 

“You ok?” Clint asks as he leads the way back to the living room. He tries to look back over his shoulder at Bucky, but his ribs remind him that that is a very bad idea.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky responds through what is clearly a yawn. Clint almost feels sorry for him. Almost. “Damn kid wore me out.”

 

“Welcome to the club.” Clint bends over to pick up a monster truck but quickly thinks better of it. Apparently bending is a very bad idea right now too.

 

“Sorry ‘bout the mess. I’ll clean it up.” Bucky starts scooping up toys and tossing them into the box in the corner while Clint concentrates on breathing. In. _Ouch_. Out. _Ouch_. In. _Ouch_. . . Shouldn’t be this hard, right? He definitely remembers that is used to be easier, back before he stupidly decided to jump off a balcony. True, he was being chased at the time, but in retrospect it really seems like there must have been some other option he could have chosen. Shimmy down the side of the building, perhaps? Swing off the balcony and land on the one below? Anything has to be better than taking a wrought iron railing to the chest.

 

Clint tears his attention away from his breathing long enough to remember that he has to give Bucky shit. “How’d that ‘making him eat vegetables’ thing go?”

 

“Not so good,” Bucky admits with a rueful shake of his head. Clint notices he’s got a smudge of chocolate on his cheek too, and his hair is sticking upon the side. Clint decides to keep this information to himself. Maybe he can get a picture before Bucky looks in a mirror and fixes it.

 

“What happened?” It’s still too fucking cold in here. Clint is shivering and sweating at the same time.

 

“Well, after you left he got all teary-eyed, then he held up his arms for me to pick him up.”

 

“And?”

 

“And so I did. He put his arms around my neck and uh, I remembered what you said, about—you know.”

 

“What?”

 

“Love and security and shit like that.”

 

 _Goddamn it, Bucky, just spit the rest of the story out! Or at least finish clearing off the couch so I can sit down._ “So what’d you do?” Clint reaches out to take the dishes off the couch, but his arm feels weird, kind of rubbery and floaty. His tingling fingers don’t really want to grip the plate.

 

“So I rocked him and told him he was safe.” Bucky sounds embarrassed to be saying that, but Clint has to admit he’s kind of proud of the guy.

 

“Did that help?” Oh, spots in front of his eyes now. They’re pretty. All sparkly and swirly. Doesn’t hurt so bad now. Kind of numb. That’s better, right? Right.

 

“Yeah. He stopped crying and gave me this big grin—you know, that one that lights up the room.”

 

“Yeah, I know that grin.” Clint has managed to pick up the plates, but now that he’s got them in his hands, he doesn’t know where to set them down. The coffee table is covered in junk, as is the end table. There are literally no horizontal surfaces available, and Clint doesn’t think he can make it to the kitchen because the room is starting to get all tilty. 

 

“And then he says, ‘Wet’s pway, Uncuh Bucky!’ It all went to shit after that.”

 

Laughing is such a bad idea. Just the worst. Clint winces and sways on his feet. He’s still got a plate in each hand and nowhere to put them, but damn he needs to lie down now. Fucking floor won’t stay level.

 

“He tried to rub that stupid bear on my neck.”

 

Oh god. . . don’t laugh. . . _ouch_. So. much. ouch. Clint wants to put his hands on his chest but they’re full of plates so he just sort of hunches over instead, breathing shallowly through his nose because _OUCH OUCH OUCH_.

 

“What’s wrong with you?” Aww. . . is that _concern_ in Bucky’s voice? One more emotion for the scoreboard.

 

“Nothing, I’m fine.” Clint tries to focus on Bucky’s face, but it’s mostly just spots and sparkles. Now it's too hot in here. Who messed with the heat? Oh, yeah, Clint did, but he didn't expect it to get so hot so quickly. Sweaty. Ugh.

 

“Let me see.” Bucky’s voice sounds like it’s coming through a tunnel.

 

“I’m fine, really.”

 

“Yeah? You look like shit.” Bucky has moved closer, Clint thinks. It’s hard to tell. Everything seems pretty far away right now.

 

Just a little cracked ribs,” Clint mumbles. “Need to lie down for a while.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“Tried to. . . “ (breathe in. . . _ouch_ ) “jump onto a balcony and caught the rail in the ribs.”

 

“Your lips are blue,” Bucky says, taking the plates from his hands. Finally.

 

“I’m all right.” Now where the hell is that couch so he can lie down?

 

“You sound like you’re gargling.  Natasha let you get away with not going to medical?”

 

God, when did Bucky get to be such a mother hen? “She didn’t. . . (breathe. _ouch_ ). . . see it. She was too busy. . . (breathe. _ouch_ ). . . jimmying the sliding door. I’m ok, really. I just need to. . . (breathe. _ouch_ ). . . lie down. . .” Oooh, things are getting really tilty now. Who messed with the gravity?

 

Clint hears Bucky calling “Clint!” but he’s very far away and the room is getting dim and the floor is tipping. Someone is grabbing him but he doesn’t know why. He just needs to lie down. Just needs to close his eyes for a minute. Eyelids are very heavy, don’t you know? Why doesn’t Bucky let him lie down? Why does Bucky keep swearing like that? 

 

There is a sudden boom, but it takes a minute for Clint’s mind to process it as thunder instead of, say, Bucky clapping his hands or something. Clint pries his eyes open just enough to make out Thor, standing in the entrance to the living room wrapped in his cape, arms hugging his bear. His eyes are very wide and it looks like he’s screaming but Clint can’t hear anything. He tries to say “It’s ok, pal,” but what comes out is a low moan. _Ouch_.

 

Fade to black. End scene.

 

* * *

 

Reality drips back in slowly. The first thing Clint senses, with his eyes still glued shut, is the heat. So. fucking. hot. Sweaty. 

 

The second thing is that his left arm is pinned down, which is probably good because it’s keeping him from floating away. 

 

The third thing is that there’s something in his nose. How annoying.

 

The fourth thing is the beeping. Soft, rhythmic, insistent. Also annoying.

 

So hot. Turn off the furnace. Please? He tries to turn his head to the left but it’s blocked. Something tickles his chin. Carefully, Clint cracks open an eye, squinting against the glare, and finds that the tickle is from Thor’s hair, and the thing blocking his head moving is Thor’s head, and the heat is coming from Thor’s body, glued to his side. He tries to lift a hand but he’s tethered by a tube—I.V. in his hand--so he tugs on the cord far enough to clumsily smooth down Thor’s hair. The only response is a light snore. 

 

“You missed quite the light show last night,” comes a gruff voice from his right. Clint turns his head to find Bucky sitting back in an uncomfortable-looking chair, feet propped up on the bedframe, with a tablet on his lap. It’s the first time Clint has ever seen Bucky with a tablet—didn’t even think the man knew how to use one. He opens his mouth to give him shit about it, but the only thing that comes out is a croaking sound.

 

“Hang on, you had a tube down your throat a few minutes ago.” Bucky stands up and holds out a cup of water with a straw sticking out of it. “Here, drink this.”

 

Clint drinks and it’s cold and refreshing so he sucks in more until he almost chokes. As he’s coughing weakly, he feels Bucky’s hand, the metal one, squeezing his shoulder and suddenly Clint’s choking for a different reason.

 

“You ok?”

 

“Y—yeah, I’m good,” Clint manages to say. He clears his throat and blinks back the tears that are threatening. He concentrates on the feel of his fingers working out the tangles in Thor’s hair until he can compose himself. “What the hell—?”

 

“You fucked yourself up good, man. Almost died.” Does Bucky sound. . . _impressed_ by that? “After you collapsed, Thor kind of fell apart thinking you were dead.” Bucky settles back into his chair and Clint thinks he’s done, but he’s apparently just warming up. “Fucking tower got hit by lightning and power went out while Cho was working on you. Lucky for you backup kicked in and she was able to finish whatever the hell she was doing. I think she had your chest open at one point. Hard to see cuz I was trying to keep Thor from killing everyone.”

 

There is a short pause while Bucky does something on the tablet. He’s swiping his finger quickly back and forth over the screen. Playing some kind of game, maybe? Clint’s about to ask him, when he starts talking again. “You’re lucky you survived. We’re all lucky you survived. I don’t think New York coulda handled the thunderstorm that woulda resulted if you’d died.”

 

That is the most words Clint has ever heard Bucky string together at one time, and it seems to have worn him out. He sinks back into his chair and focuses on the tablet, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. More rapid swiping. “Are you playing Fruit Ninja?”

 

Bucky glances up with a half-grin on his face and suddenly, _shit_ , he looks like the old pictures from the Smithsonian, of Bucky-before. “I said all those words, and t _hat’s_ what you got outta it?”

 

“Hundred year old super-soldier assassin playing Fruit Ninja. Yes, that’s what I got out of it.”

 

“Great. I shoulda just kept my mouth shut.”

 

“I like it when you talk,” Clint says impulsively. _Dammit, brain, stop doing shit like that. He’s gonna run away._

 

Bucky doesn’t run away. Instead he flashes that grin again, the Bucky-before grin, just quick and it’s gone but it was there and it was _real_ and Clint’s getting choked up all over again.

 

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”

 

Too late, I’m already used to it, Clint thinks but manages not to say. Luckily Bucky’s looking at little Thor now, and Clint’s I.V.-tethered hand still awkwardly stroking his hair, and a ghost of the grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I think you’re stuck with that kid.”

 

“He likes you too.”

 

“Nuh-uh,” Bucky says, shaking his head, “not like that. He was ready to fucking murder the doc for hurting you.”

 

Clint cranes his neck, even though it makes him dizzy, until he can see Thor’s sweet sleeping profile snuggled up against his armpit: pudgy cheeks, little turned-up nose with the dusting of freckles, long dark eyelashes. . . Clint feels that familiar ache in his chest, and it’s not just from the stitches. It’s that feeling of _this kid_ ** _belongs_** _to me._ “I think we’ll keep him. Laura wants to meet him.” Oh, right, Bucky hasn’t met his family. He has this whole other life Bucky knows nothing about. “Laura’s my wife,” he clarifies.

 

“Yeah, I know. What do your kids think?”

 

Oh, so maybe Bucky does know something about his family. Steve must have told him, because it’s not like Clint has had in-depth conversations with Bucky about this before. It’s not like Clint has _ever_ had any in-depth conversations with Bucky before.

 

“Don’t know yet. I think I’ll take him for a visit soon.”

 

“That’s good. It ain’t fair to him to be stuck here. The kid needs room to run.”

 

“True statement.” Clint feels a nudge in the ribs, then a sharp poke from a little elbow that leaves him gasping for breath, and then Thor is sitting up, blinking, red-cheeked and sweaty, tangled hair standing up like a woodland elf.

 

“Uncuh Cwint?” Thor says in a small voice, “Are you awive?”

 

Clint starts to chuckle but his ribs disagree. “Yeah, pal, I’m alive.”

 

Thor turns to Bucky and says earnestly, “ Uncuh Bucky, Cwint is awive.”

 

Bucky’s eyes crinkle, just a little bit, like he’s trying but can’t quite suppress a smile. “Yeah, I noticed that, squirt. Are you glad about that?”

 

“Yes. I don’t want to wiv on Midgard if Uncuh Cwint isn’t here.” And then Thor is leaning in, laying his head on Clint’s chest and burying his nose in his neck, and Clint starts squirming at the unexpected pressure on his wound. It’s not exactly pain—well, pain is lurking around the edges but he assumes he is on some pretty strong meds at the moment which are keeping it down to a dull ache. Luckily the kid sits back up again quickly. Nose wrinkled, he reaches out and pats Clint’s cheeks with his sticky little palms. “Your face is ‘cratchy.”

 

“I’m not surprised.”

 

“You don’t ‘mell bery good.”

 

“Sorry about that. I haven’t exactly had a chance to shower.”

 

Thor turns back to Bucky, “Uncuh Bucky, can you pwease go get Uncuh Cwint’s shabing ‘tuff? I need to ‘mell dat.”

 

“Yeah, I can bring it later,” Bucky replies. His mouth is curled up at the corner now from his half-suppressed grin. “Want me to shampoo his hair too? Maybe bring him some deodorant? Or we could give him a bath.”

 

Thor eyes Bucky, then Clint, then back to Bucky again like he can’t quite figure out if that’s a workable idea or not, but he’s seriously considering it. “I don’t fink Cwint can walk. Can you carry him to the baftub? I can help wif his wegs.”

 

Bucky doesn’t seem inclined to explain, mainly because he’s working so fucking hard not to laugh, so Clint takes pity on the kid. “He’s pulling your leg, buddy,” he says, patting Thor on the back.

 

Now Thor looks even more confused. “No, Uncuh Cwint, nobody is puwwing my wegs. I can pull _your_ wegs, so you can take a baf and ‘mell better so I can ‘niff you. See?”

 

A muffled snort comes from Bucky’s direction. Clint glances at him to find that his face has gone pink and his shoulders are shaking. He’s gonna pop a blood vessel with how hard he is _not_ laughing. Yeah, hilarious. Poor Thor. This could probably be classified as child abuse. “No, I meant he was joking. I’ll take a bath as soon as I get back to our apartment, ok?”

 

“Ok. Can I wook at your owie?”

 

“It’s all covered up with the bandage right now, pal.”

 

“You can take the bandage off, right? I need to kiss dat owie to make it feel better. Dat’s what my mother does—did, and my owies healed right up. Woki can do dat too. Hey, maybe Woki can come here and kiss your owie!”

 

Clint chuckles uneasily. “That’s very sweet, Thor, but if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll use Dr. Cho’s cradle. It’ll fix me up in no time.”

 

* * *

 

‘No time’ turns out to be an extremely optimistic estimate on Clint’s part. Cho starts laughing when he asks if he can leave that afternoon.

 

“I’m good but I’m not that good. The Cradle can only repair so much, Clint.”

 

“But it healed me before—“ Clint starts to protest, but Cho interrupts.

 

“That was soft tissue. This time I had to crack your sternum and give you internal cardiac massage. I was literally holding your heart in my hand. You have five broken ribs and a collapsed lung. You’re lucky to be alive. Now just spend four days on the couch and you can stay that way.”

 

“Two days.”

 

“Three days, and not a minute less.”

 

“I’ve got a kid to take care of!”

 

“Let someone else take care of him for a while,” Cho says firmly. “ _Rest_!”

 

“Ok, fine. Geez.”

 

* * *

 

Conversations take place. These conversations take place in Clint’s hospital room, but they do. not. include. him. He lies on the bed gritting his teeth while his teammates, a bunch of non-parent idiots, stand in a circle with their backs to him and discuss how to best “parent” the kid. Luckily the kid in question is off getting something to eat with some poor intern who has no idea what she’s gotten herself into.

 

“He can’t sleep with Clint because he might accidentally hurt him,” Nat says.

 

“He’ll just have to sleep in one of the kids’ beds. Aren’t there three of them?” That’s Steve, who is the biggest idiot of all. Over a hundred years old, no kids of his own, absolutely zero experience raising kids, still thinks he knows everything. Clint makes a noise to object, but Steve holds up his finger to shush him WITHOUT EVEN TURNING AROUND. If Clint could shout, he’d be giving Steve a good tongue-lashing. If he could sit up, he would grab Steve by the ear and make _him_  shush.

 

To Clint’s surprise, Bucky speaks up in his defense. “Good luck. He ain’t gonna do that, Stevie.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Just fucking trust me, ok? The kid ain’t sleeping alone.”

 

“Ok, fine, Bucky, I trust you. I guess we’ll have to . . . assign someone to . . . sleep with him.”

 

Tony puts in, quietly to Sam, “If he were his usual size, I’m sure we’d have plenty of volunteers.”

 

“That’s not helpful, Tony,” Steve says.

 

“My apologies, Steve. We can probably take turns. I nominate Nat to go first.”

 

“Why do I have to go first?”

 

“I have important things to do,” Tony explains to Nat, proving once and for all that he is an even bigger idiot than Clint thought.

 

The team decides that Tony will be the first one to sleep with Thor once Clint is released from the hospital wing, and Tony, who is busy looking startled while rubbing his arm, opens his mouth, but then shuts it again without voicing any objection. 

 

Great. Everything’s decided then. Without any input from Clint, the only one with any parenting experience in the bunch, the only person who knows how to cook the “dragon nuggets” exactly like Thor likes them, and how to arrange the cape properly on the bed at night, and how to do the senses countdown so he can get to sleep at night. No one else can even understand the kid’s speech! This is a fucking nightmare.

 

* * *

 

Bucky takes Thor away for the night so Clint can “get some sleep.” Like he’s gonna be able to sleep with all the thunder and lightning going down. The first storm wakes Clint up at 12:03 a.m. Clint knows what time it is because he tries to pick up his phone from the bedside table, fumbles it onto the floor, and nearly pulls a stitch stretching down to fetch it.

 

The second time is at 1:47 a.m. (Clint knows that for the same reason _goddammit_ ). The third time is at 3:18. After the third storm has lasted for over fifteen minutes of constant booming and flashing and pouring rain, Clint texts Bucky.

 

**Everything ok?**

 

Over five minutes later, Bucky texts back.

 

_no_

 

That’s it. No explanation, no elaboration. Clint texts back **Do you need help?**

 

_no_

 

Well, that’s a relief. The people of New York can sleep soundly knowing that Bucky Fucking Barnes has everything taken care of and doesn’t need any fucking help. Not that Clint could help him anyway because he’s tethered to a bed right now pissing through a tube.

 

* * *

 

Morning. At 4 a.m. Clint’s eyes pop open, even though he doesn’t have a toddler jumping on him and could sleep in for the first time in weeks. _Groan_.

 

At 4:10 he gets a text from Bucky. 

 

_thor woke me up at 4. damn kids worse than stevie_

 

Welcome to the club, Bucky. The up-all-night-early-risers club. Current members: you, me, Thor, roosters. It’s an exclusive club, but about to get a lot less exclusive if everyone has to take turns sleeping with Thor. Nat and Sam should be fine. Tony stays up all night anyway. Steve may suffer a bit with the late night thing, since he’s usually in bed by ten like a grandpa. Wanda is going to be a disaster. This should be. . . interesting.

 

* * *

 

So the team kind of forgot about the whole “kids need 24 hour supervision” thing. I.e. not just at night but all day long too. As soon as Clint is ensconced on the couch swaddled in blankets like a newborn (with Thor’s cape on top “so you will be nice and warm, Uncuh Cwint”), Bucky says, “Ok you’re fine now right tony’s coming later i gotta go bye” and fucking _disappears_. 

 

Thor immediately decides he’s hungry. “I can fix the tot-parts, Uncuh Cwint. I’ll make some for you too!” Thor disappears into the kitchen despite Clint’s weak protests. Next thing he knows, he hears far too much banging around, crashing, clattering, and then Thor yells in, “HOW I GOTTA MAKE IT GO?” Is he standing on the counter? It really sounds like he’s standing on the counter.

 

“Turn the dial to five minutes,” Clint calls back, as loudly as he can, even though it hurts like hell to shout.

 

“WHAT DOES FIVE MINUTES MEAN? I CAN’T READ DAT DIAL FING.”

 

Goddammit. “Just a minute, Thor. Let me see if I can get up.”

 

“I CAN DO IT, UNCUH CWINT! YOU CAN WAY DERE AND RES’. I GOT IT.”

 

So Clint lays back and tries to rest. He can’t burn the whole building down, right? Friday would put out the fire, right? RIGHT?

 

A few minutes later, Thor comes in carefully balancing a plate with several broken pieces of Pop-tarts piled on it and carrying an overfull glass of milk. He is covered pretty much head to toe in crumbs and sticky jam filling. In fact, there’s more filling around his mouth than on the plate, and most of the pieces of Pop-tarts have what look like slobbery bite-marks taken out of them.

 

“Do dey wook good, Uncuh Cwint? I maked dem for you!” Thor looks so proud of himself and his eyes look so hopeful that Clint eats every bite while Thor watches anxiously.

 

“Those were great, Thor. Thank you.”

 

“I can take care of you, Uncuh Cwint. I don’t need any help. I can eben pick up dese toys, see?” He runs around picking up toys with his grubby hands and putting them in the wrong places for a while until he gets distracted and starts playing with the trucks instead. Clint doesn’t care as long as the kid is entertaining himself so he can rest. 

 

Tony doesn’t show up until after 10 p.m., by which time Thor is so filthy Clint is surprised plants aren’t starting to grow on him. Tony raises his eyebrows at the mess but doesn’t say anything, which Clint is grateful for. Tony doesn’t make an effort to clean any of it up either, which Clint is not so grateful for. 

 

“Did you eat some dinner, Simba?”

 

“Yes. I maked dragon nuggets for Uncuh Cwint and me,” Thor says proudly.

 

“Dragon nuggets, huh? Sounds deadly.”

 

“Dey are dewicioso! Can we watch a mobie?”

 

Clint is about to interject that it’s too late for a movie, but Tony just shrugs and says, “Sure, why not? What movie do you want to watch?”

 

“Wet’s watch Cai-you!”

 

Clint considers giving Tony a talking-to about things like bedtime and limiting screentime, but he thinks better of it. Having to watch Caillou with an over-enthusiastic preschooler is punishment enough.

 

* * *

 

At 4:03 a.m. Clint is awakened by the sound of Thor’s voice overlaid with the burbling of the coffeemaker. “AND DEN WOKI ‘TABBED THE BAD GUY IN THE ‘TOMACH AND HE FALLED OFF THE BRIDGE!”

 

“Uh-huh,” comes Tony’s distracted response.

 

“AND DEN DERE WAS A BAD MAN WIF CWIPPERS AND HE CUTTED MY HAIR. HE WAS BERY OLD AND UGWY!”

 

“Uh-huh. Sounds terrifying.”

 

“I WAS ‘CARED OF DAT BAD MAN. I CRIED WHEN HE CUTTED MY HAIR.”

 

“Uh-huh. Those are some pretty awful dreams, kiddo.”

 

“Yes, dat WAS awful.”

 

Tony comes wandering into the living room drinking coffee right out of the pot, while Thor dances around him. “Pick me up, Tony! Tony! Pick me up!”

 

Still chugging coffee, Tony picks Thor up in his other arm and keeps moving through the semi-dark back toward the bedroom. “Tony, can I call you Uncuh Tony?!”

 

Tony stops walking, lowers the carafe, and looks down at Thor like he’s just noticed he’s there. “Yeah, sure you can, little buddy.”

 

“Yay! Fank you, Uncuh Tony!! Can we make top-parps now??”

 

“. . . Ok.”

 

* * *

 

Tony must have said something to the rest of the team about Clint needing more help, because Bruce shows up (without knocking—what’s up with that? Does _everyone_ live here now??) about 10 a.m. carrying an armload of books like he thinks Thor is gonna sit still and be read to. Bless him. Tony immediately scoots out the door like he’s been shot from a cannon.

 

Bruce takes one look around, raises his eyebrows at Thor’s filthy pajamas and sticky hair, and declares that it’s bathtime. Thor disagrees.

 

“I’m not dirty, I’m cwean, Bruce.”

 

“What is that all over your shirt then?”

 

Thor goes cross-eyed frowning down at the front of his Bucky shirt. “Dat’s jus’ jewwy. It’s not dirt.”

 

“You can take toys in the tub with you,” Bruce suggests.

 

The kid’s eyes widen. “I can? Can I take a fuck in dere?”

 

“. . . Um, yeah, a truck. Sure.”

 

“Can I take TWO fucks?”

 

“Yep. Whatever you want,” Bruce says, because he’s an idiot who does not understand how this kid’s mind works. 

 

“Yay! UNCUH CWINT! I can take fucks in the baftub!!”

 

“That’s. . . great.”

 

“And PWAYDOH! And MARKERS!”

 

“Wait a minute. . .” Bruce hedges, but it’s too late. Thor has already stripped off his shirt(s) and is headed down the hall toward the kids’ bedroom. A few seconds later he emerges with all sorts of non-waterproof and easily damaged toys, including Lila’s Starkpad. “I don’t think—“

 

“Wet’s take a baf, Bruce!” Thor disappears into the bathroom with his contraband, and Bruce hurries after. Clint can’t see what they’re doing in there, but if the splashing and squealing is any indication, Bruce is probably starting to catch on that you don’t let this kid set his own limits.

 

Less than ten minutes later, the bathroom door flies open with a bang, and Thor comes streaking through the apartment, giggling hysterically, while Bruce, who looks like he was the one who just took a bath, chases him with a towel. “Hey, Thor, come on buddy, you have to get dressed,” Bruce calls.

 

“OK. I CAN PUT MY HAWKEYE PAJAMAS BACK ON.”

 

Clint can’t help but laugh, even though it makes his ribs ache. Poor Bruce looks so confused and crestfallen as Thor sits his bare butt down on the floor and starts pulling his filthy pajamas on. _You lose, Bruce. Sorry. It happens to the best of us._

 

But then Bruce makes noodles with butter and ketchup, and washes the dishes, and convinces Thor to help clean up the toys, and wipes down all the surfaces until they shine, and even _combs out Thor’s hair_ , and starts honest-to-god full-on crying when Thor asks to call him Uncuh Bruce. It’s a good day, even if Clint is going a bit stir-crazy. Two days down, one more to go, right?

 

* * *

 

Steve comes over to spend the night, and in the morning Bucky comes right on in, just to hang out as far as Clint can tell. Clint feels like a fly on the wall as he lays on the couch and listens to the two of them talking and joking around—it’s sweet and reassuring, but he realizes that it’s all surface, like they’re doing a familiar dance that they both know the moves to. He wonders if Bucky has told Steve about what happened to him, but he guesses not. Steve will never ask because he doesn’t want to pry, and Bucky won’t tell unless he’s been asked, so it’s a catch-22.

 

Just as Clint’s thinking what a depressing clusterfuck this all is, Steve pops his head into the living room with Thor in his arms, grins, and says, “Oh, good, you’re awake. Are you hungry?” Yes, hungry. There’s food and hundred-year-old supersoldiers who cook you dinner, and exuberant little boys who want to call everyone Uncle, and life is good, really, despite everything that sucks about it.

 

And you haven’t lived until you’ve had Captain America in your kitchen, wearing a pink and yellow ruffled apron that says “Mama needs wine,” whipping up an eggplant parmesan lasagna that he naively thinks will be a big hit. And then of course he has to try to convince the little feral child to eat it.

 

“Here, Thor, try this.”

 

“I don’t wike dat.”

 

“It’s yummy.”

 

“It wooks di’gu’ting.”

 

“You don’t know if you like it until you try it,” Steve says in that overly-patient voice that means he thinks he is being reasonable and you are the idiot.

 

“My ‘tomach doesn’t want dat. If I fy to eat dat I will frow up. I want to eat dragon nuggets.”

 

“Chicken nuggets have no nutritional value, Thor.”

 

“I don’t care. I wike dem.”

 

“Give it up, Stevie,” Bucky puts in gruffly.

 

There is a moment of silence. Clint can’t see them from his position on the couch, but he can picture it: Steve with his ‘I’m so patient and reasonable’ look, and Thor with his arms crossed and a mulish expression on his ketchup- and jam-streaked face, tangled hair sticking straight up in the back, while Bucky rolls his eyes at them both.

 

Finally Clint hears Steve sigh, and a minute later Bucky-the-trash-compactor comes in the living room with a fork in one hand and the casserole dish in the other, eating the lasagna straight from the pan. He lifts up Clint’s feet, sits down on the other end of the couch and hands Clint a fork. So apparently this is what they’re doing now.

 

“Like Garfield,” Clint says, carving out a big bite from the end that hasn’t been eaten from yet.

 

“Who the fuck is that?”

 

“Never mind.”

 

* * *

 

Wanda stays that night and damn is she grumpy about it.

 

“Wanda, carry me!”

 

“No.”

 

“Wanda, pway wif me!”

 

“No.”

 

“Wanda, can I call you Auntie Wanda?!”

 

Wanda:

 

“Pweeeease?”

 

“Ok.”

 

“Yay! Auntie Wanda, can you pwease build wif Wegos wif me?”

 

“. . . Ok.”

 

_Another one bites the dust. Ha! You lose, Wanda!_

 

It doesn’t seem like Wanda thinks she lost, however, judging by the proud half-smile on her face when Thor oohs and aahs over her Lego creation.

 

“Dis is the best ‘paceship eber, Auntie Wanda! Show me how to make one wike dat!”

 

* * *

 

Nat shows up in the morning and proceeds to wear Thor out by chasing him around the apartment tickling him mercilessly until he squeals with joy. At least Clint hopes that’s joy and not terror. Either way, the kid doesn’t want it to end. Every time Nat tries to stop, he begs her, “Fy to catch me, Auntie Nat!!” so of course she has to keep doing it.

 

After a solid hour of this, Nat and Thor curl up in the comfy chair together and both fall asleep. Clint snaps a few pictures because turn-about is fair play.

 

And then! Nat has the audacity to LEAVE after dinner, just because Clint has been given Dr. Cho’s blessing to get up from the couch like a phoenix rising from the ashes.

 

“You got this, right?” she says with an innocent smile, like she didn’t just set him up to be up half the night with a kid who is “jus’ not sweepy.” Clint thought she was his friend, but after a betrayal like this, he doesn’t know if he can trust her again.

 

* * *

 

Clint has to admit it’s good to be back in his own bed again. He even finds he’s missed the kid. And Thor is delighted to have him back.

 

“Bucky ‘nores reawwy woud!”

 

“He does, huh?”

 

“Yes. And Tony ‘mells funny. He uses different shabing ‘tuff. I don’t wike it.”

 

“Well, everyone likes different things,” Clint points out, reasonably.

 

“And Wanda wouldn’t wet me ‘nuggoh her. But I didn’t have any bad dreams when she was dere.”

 

“That’s good, right?”

 

“Yes. And ‘Teve talks in his sweep.”

 

Clint finds himself smiling, even though it’s after midnight and he’s beyond exhausted and sleep is nowhere in sight. “Really? What did he say?”

 

“Crazy ‘tuff. Wike ‘watch out!’ and ‘What’d dey do?’ and “End of the wine” but I don’t know what dat means. He yelled about Bucky a wot and fwinged his arms around wike he was grabbing somefing. Den he waked up and I fink he was crying, eben dough he said he wasn’t.”

 

Now Clint feels guilty for asking the kid to tell, because it feels like an invasion of privacy all of a sudden. It’s not Clint’s business if Steve still has nightmares about Bucky falling from the train.

 

“But I teached him dat ‘mewwing fing and it maked him feel better.”

 

“You did?”

 

“Yes. ‘Teve ‘mells good. I rubbed my Bucky bear on him too so I can bemember dat ‘mell.”

 

“Well, that’s good.”

 

“And he said I can call him Uncuh ‘Teve too.”

 

“That’s. . . _very_ good, Thor. I bet he liked that.”

 

“I fink so. His eyes got all shiny and I fought I maked him sad wike Bruce but den he hugged me _reawwy_ tight so I fink he wiked it.”

 

Clint can’t help but smile at that reasoning, and Thor lights up like the sun. “Hey, Thor, how would you like to meet my family?” Clint says impulsively.

 

Thor’s eyes, which had been bright and happy, suddenly go observant. “You have children, right?”

 

“Yes, I have three. One is about your age—well, your size anyway.”

 

Thor rubs the edge of the blanket between his thumb and fingers, then sticks the corner of it into his mouth. “Dose are his toys I been pwaying wif.”

 

“Yes, they’re his. Want to see a picture of him?”

 

“Yes.”

 

So Clint gets out his phone and scrolls back through his pictures until he finds one of Nathaniel, taken a couple of months ago. Nathaniel is sitting on the tractor, one of his favorite places. The sun is shining, and Clint remembers that Nathaniel was happy, but in the picture he is scowling at the camera like he always does.

 

“Dis is your widdoh boy?”

 

“Yes, that’s Nathaniel.”

 

“Nafanyo?”

 

“. . . Yeah. Nathaniel.”

 

“He’s the same size as me?”

 

“Yes, just a little smaller.”

 

Thor leans in and contemplates the picture. His eyebrows are pulled together in distress as he chomps on the corner of the cape. “He wooks angry.”

 

“He always looks like that. It doesn’t mean he’s really angry.”

 

“Dat’s wike Woki,” Thor says earnestly. “He’s always frowning, but it doesn’t mean he’s reawwy angry.”

 

“. . . Ok.” Clint flips to another picture, this one of Laura and the three kids together, along with the dog. “This is my wife Laura, and my older kids Cooper and Lila. And this is Goliath.”

 

“Gowiaf?”

 

“Yeah. Goliath, our dog. As you can see, he lives up to his name.”

 

“What does dat mean?”

 

“Oh. Just that he’s big. He’s about as tall as you are, but don’t worry, he’s very gentle.”

 

“Oh.” Thor sits hunched over the phone and stares at the picture in silence for a long moment. The only movement is his little round jaw working furiously on the cape.

 

Clint flips to a picture of the farm and shows it to the kid. “And this is where we live,” he says, to fill up the silence. “See, it’s not like here. There’s no big buildings, lots of room to run. You’d have fun there.” Thor doesn’t move or respond in any way, so Clint lays a hand on his back, where all the muscles are taut. “Hey, buddy? You ok?” he asks, gently rubbing up and down to try to help him relax. It’s not working.

 

“Is dis wike a file?” Thor pipes anxiously.

 

“. . . A what?”

 

“A file. Wike, to fy me out and see if dey wike me.”

 

Is that what this anxiety is about? “They like you already, Thor. I sent Laura a picture of you and she wants you to come.”

 

“What if I break somefing?”

 

“Then you’ll fit right in. Nathaniel breaks at least two things every week.”

 

“What if your children get upset dat I pwayed wif deir toys? Woki gets bery angry when I touch his ‘tuff.”

 

“Believe me, they won’t get upset. They left the toys here and they don’t care who plays with them. It’s gonna be fine, I promise.”

 

“But what if—?”

 

“Look, I’m planning to go see my family this weekend. Either you can come with me, or you can stay here with Bucky and the team.”

 

Thor gazes up at Clint with those huge blue eyes like the ocean. “I always want to go whereber you go, Uncuh Cwint.”

 

“Great! So we’ll go tomorrow.”

 

“Can we take dem presents? Dat’s what my mother always does—did.”

 

“That’s a very good idea, Thor, and a fitting tribute to your mother. What do you want to take them?”

 

"I can take some fwowers to Waura. My mother always wuvs fwowers."

 

"Great idea. Laura loves them too."

 

“I fink your children would wike Bucky bears,” Thor says, hugging his own Bucky bear which is looking a bit bedraggled these days from all the love that has been devoted to it.

 

“Hmm. Yes, I think Lila and Nathaniel would like Bucky bears. I can see if Bucky can get us some more.”

 

“What about Cooper? He would wike it too. Eberybody would wike a Bucky bear.”

 

“I don’t think he would want a stuffed animal.”

 

“Why not? It’s bery sof’.”

 

“Yeah, I know, but Cooper turned into a teenager now.”

 

Thor’s eyes widen. “Is dat awful?” he whispers. “One time Woki turned Sif into a gobwin. Is it wike dat?”

 

“Almost exactly,” Clint manages to say with a straight face. Yes, goblin is an apt comparison to Cooper’s attitude lately.

 

“My mother changed Sif back. Woki had to apowogize but he wasn’t sorry. How will Cooper get changed back?”

 

“We just have to wait a few years for him to grow out of it, I guess. How about if we take him a new controller for his XBox? That way you can play with them.”

 

“I don’t know what dat is, but if you fink he will wike it, den dat will be a good present. Is it a wong way away? How are we going to get dere?”

 

“We’ll take the Quinjet.”

 

Thor scowls. “Fwy? I don’t want to fwy. Fwying makes me frow up. I want to take a horse.”

 

“Sorry, buddy, that would take too long.”

 

“How about a fuck?”

 

“Nope, still too long. If you come with me, you’ll have to fly.”

 

Thor rests his chin on the top of the bear’s head and says reluctantly, “Ok.”

 

“And when we get there, you have to sleep in your own bed.”

 

Oh, the look of betrayal on the kid’s face. Clint would laugh if he didn’t think it would lead to a thunderstorm. “Why can’t I sweep wif you?”

 

“My wife will be sleeping with me.”

 

Betrayal turns to outrage. “How come she gets to sweep wif you and I don’t??”

 

“Because she’s my wife.”

 

“What if I can’t sweep?”

 

“Then you have to keep trying. Laura would like it if you slept in your own bed.”

 

“I can sweep wif bof of you!” Thor grins and nods like he’s agreeing with himself.

 

“No, in your own bed.”

 

The grin disappears. Thor scowls and buries his face in his bear’s fur. Outside, the dark clouds start to gather, blotting out the moon.

 

“If you want to go with me, you have to promise you’ll try it, ok?”

 

There is a long pause while Thor sits frozen, staring at the bedspread. His mouth is hidden against the bear, but his eyebrows are fierce.

 

“Thor?”

 

Fierce eyebrows get fiercer. Dark clouds get darker.

 

“Come on, Thor. Here.” Clint reaches for Thor but the kid’s back stiffens under his hand. “Come here, buddy. It’s ok.”

 

Thor only holds out a little longer before he finally clambers into Clint’s lap and lays his head against his chest. “Ok, I will fy to ‘tay in my own bed. I want Waura to wike me so she will wet me ‘tay dere wif your famiwy.”

 

“Laura will like you anyway.”

 

Thor doesn’t respond to that, but he shifts his head to the side a bit. His small fingers come up and trace along the lumpy, fresh scar snaking down Clint’s sternum. “I can hear your heartbeat again. I couldn’t hear it wif dat bandage on. Wistening to your heart makes me feel safe. I wuv you, Uncuh Cwint.”

 

Clint can’t quite speak because of the lump in his throat. After a few seconds, Thor says, “Dat’s ok if you can’t say dat back. I ‘till wuv you.”

 

“I love you too, Thor,” Clint chokes out quickly, because he doesn’t want to miss his opportunity again.

 

“Foreber?”

 

“Yes, forever.”


	22. A Bisit to Cwint's Famiwy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Farm is Clint's little oasis, his heaven on earth. Except for when it's not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, fine, the visit to Clint's family was taking a little too long so I split it into two parts. Which means there is at least one more chapter before Loki shows up. Sorry to disappoint all the Loki-fans out there.

* * *

 

 

Two more treatments with the Cradle (An hour-long forced nap in silence? Yes please!) and Clint really is as good as new. The only trace of the scar is a faint whitish line extending from his collarbone nearly to his navel. Cho gives him a clean bill of health and permission to lift over twenty pounds again, which Thor celebrates by demanding to be carried to the gym. 

 

“Heawer Cho says you can wift me, so dat means you hafta carry me.” 

 

Not exactly, but Clint’s so happy to be back to normal that he willingly hefts the giggling kid up onto his shoulder. “Yay! Wet’s go jump on the fampowine!” Thor cries, grabbing onto Clint’s ear to steer him down the hall toward the “ewebator.”

 

* * *

 

When Clint impulsively invites Bucky to come with them to the farm, he stares over Clint’s left shoulder for almost a full minute, then walks off without a word. Clint takes that as a ‘no’. _Whatever, dude. You’re missing out. The farm is heaven on earth._

 

Thor lets Clint give him a bath, and brush and style his hair, and even agrees, under only mild duress, to put on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt under his ‘Teve hoodie. The Hawkeye pjs and Bucky shirt are clean and packed, along with the extra Bucky bears and XBox controller, in the little Caillou suitcase that Tony so graciously supplied (Gee, thanks, Tony!). The flowers are in a vase wedged into a corner so they don’t fall over and spill water everywhere. Thor’s got his Bucky bear under one arm, a StarkPad to watch a mobie, and headphones _thank god_ so Clint doesn’t have to listen to three hours of Dora the ‘Pworer, and snacks to keep his mouth busy, and an airsick bag next to him just in case. For the first hour of the flight, things are fine. Just great. Blue skies and sunshine and QUIET and it’s glorious.

 

In retrospect, Clint realizes it might not have been such a great idea to give Thor free reign with a family-sized bag of potato chips on the plane. Hindsight is 20/20, right? The first indication that something might be amiss is a little gasp from Thor, which is followed immediately by a retching sound, and then a splash.

 

“I frowed up on my cwothes,” says a small voice. Clint turns around in his seat to find Thor covered in vomit. He’s clutching the airsick bag in one hand but it doesn’t appear any of the puke actually hit the bag. Luckily he dropped the StarkPad on the floor so it didn’t get hit.

 

“Sorry, buddy, we’ll be there in a few minutes, then we’ll get you changed.”

 

“Dat’s ok, Cwint. I can wear my Hawkeye pajamas. Dose are better anyway.”

 

 _Yes, of course they are._  

 

* * *

 

Clint sets the jet down in the field amidst the stubble of winter wheat, and helps Thor wipe off the puke with a baby wipe, then get changed back into the Hawkeye pajamas. He insists on wearing the Bucky shirt on top even though it’s almost July because of course he does. Everything’s better when you’re wearing a Bucky shirt.

 

Even with the Bucky shirt, Thor still looks nervous. His eyes have gone observant again and he’s got the cuff of the silver sleeve stuffed into his mouth. Clint tries to get him to walk and carry his own bag because Clint’s hands are full of his own gear, but Thor is having none of that.

 

“I can carry the fwowers, Uncuh Cwint,” Thor says, pulling them out of the vase and squishing them in his sweaty little fist. “Den you can carry me. See? Dat will work!”

 

_Ah, yes, of course. How clever of you._

 

So with a deep sigh, Clint hoists both backpacks onto his shoulder and piles Thor’s little suitcase on top of his bigger one; then he scoops Thor up in one arm and drags the suitcases over the bumpy ground with the other. Luckily the field isn’t muddy. Laura wasn’t kidding that they need the rain around here because the entire field is dry as a bone, and the corn stalks in the next field over have turned brown and wilted. 

 

The entire family is waiting on the front porch when they get to the house. Cooper is standing off to the side with his arms folded. Laura and Lila have their hands full holding Goliath back. Nathaniel cries, “Daddy!” and comes running out to grab onto Clint’s leg.

 

“Hey, pal!”

 

Nathaniel pulls on Clint’s pant leg. “Pick me up!” he demands, even though Clint’s arms are full of Thor.

 

“In a minute, ok, Nathaniel? I’ve got my hands full.”

 

Nathaniel steps back and crosses his arms, scowling up at Thor, who is clinging to Clint’s neck like a baby monkey. Nathaniel’s nose is encrusted with snot. Lovely.

 

Laura gives Cooper a little push until he comes out and takes the suitcases. Clint can only see one of the kid’s eyes because his hair has gotten so long. _The eye is annoyed._ Bucky shoulda come along—he and Cooper could have a one-eyed stare-off. Super-soldier assassin vs. 14 year old boy. Clint has a good idea who would win that contest.

 

“Hey, Cooper, nice to see you too,” Clint says as his son takes the suitcase from his hand. 

 

Cooper rolls his eye. “Hi, Dad,” he says, straight-faced. Would it kill him to smile? No, it would not.

 

Is Lila wearing _make-up_? Nooooo. . .

 

“Hi, honey,” Laura says with a sweet smile, “And this must be Thor.”

 

“Yes, everyone, this is Thor. Thor, this is Laura, Cooper, Lila, and Nathaniel. And that’s Goliath. He’s nowhere near as scary as he pretends to be.”

 

Thor’s hand tightly grips Clint’s collar and his face presses against Clint’s shoulder. “Thor, say hi,” Clint prompts, patting Thor on the back to try to get him to look up.

 

“Hewwo,” Thor mumbles without lifting his head.

 

“It’s very nice to meet you, Thor,” Laura says. “Those flowers are beautiful!”

 

Thor lifts his head and gazes at her with big earnest eyes. “Dey are for you, Wady Waura.” D’aww. . . first thing out of his mouth and he gets the heart-melty face from both Laura AND Lila. They are way too easy to impress.

 

“Thank you, Thor! That is very thoughtful of you.” She takes the flowers, even though they are a little squashed. Thor cuts his eyes to Clint and tries out a tentative smile in response to the praise.

 

“Thor, should we give everyone else their presents?”

 

“Yes, Uncuh Cwint.”

 

So Clint sets Thor down on his feet, opens the smaller suitcase and takes out the presents for Thor to distribute (they are unwrapped because apparently wrapping gifts is not a _thing_ on Asgard and Thor got very pissy about it when Clint suggested it. _“We don’t want to hide the presents, Uncuh Cwint!”_ Fine. Clint is shit at wrapping presents anyway).

 

“Dis one is for Wiwa,” Thor says, holding out the bear with the purple and green shirt.

 

Lila takes the bear and hugs it. “Thank you, Thor. Those are my favorite colors!”

 

Thor’s smile widens. “You are welcome, Wady Wiwa.” Next Thor turns to Cooper and holds out the XBox controller. “Dis is for Cooper. I don’t know what it is, but Cwint said you would wike it.”

 

“Sure, Thor, thanks.” Was that a. . . smile? Cooper can smile! It’s a miracle!

 

There is only one present left—the other bear, which is wearing the usual blue shirt like Thor’s. Thor stands with it in his hands and looks hesitantly at Nathaniel, who is still scowling fiercely. Clint has a feeling he won’t be as easy to impress as Lila and Laura were.

 

Thor glances up at Clint, so he nods in reassurance. Thor takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and thrusts the bear out toward Nathaniel. “Dis is for you, Nafanyo,” he says in his best _being brave_ voice.

 

Nathaniel takes the bear but doesn’t say anything until Laura clears her throat. “Thank you, Thor,” he mutters grumpily without making eye contact. “Daddy, can you pick me up now?”

 

“Sure, buddy.” With a pat to Thor’s back, Clint picks up Nathaniel and stands. He feels Thor’s fingers close on his pantleg, then everyone is hugging him: Lila slips an arm around his waist, Laura’s includes a kiss that promises more to come, and even Cooper gives him a side-hug. He’s not quite smiling, but his eye at least looks neutral, which is about all that Clint can hope for. The dog starts jumping on them all, and Nathaniel is telling him a story about driving the tractor, and Clint kind of loses track of Thor in the happy chaos. Next time he looks down, Thor is wiping his cheek with a dazed expression on his face.

 

“The aminal wicked me,” he says. Goliath puts his enormous paws on Thor’s shoulders and goes in for a second lick, which causes Thor to pull back in alarm. 

 

“Goliath, get down!” Lila commands the dog. She crouches down next to Thor and holds Goliath back by the collar. “Did he hurt you, Thor?”

 

“No, it didn’t hurt. His tongue is swimy but it doesn’t have ‘pikes on it wike bilge’nipes.”

 

“Um. . . I have no idea what you just said but ok. Here, scratch him behind the ears,” she says, “He likes that.”

 

Clint watches out of the corner of his eye while at the same time listening to Nathaniel’s story and trying to hug him without getting snot rubbed on his face. Thor reaches out a hand, but quickly yanks it back when the dog’s eager nose comes up to sniff him. 

 

“Goliath, stop it,” Lila says firmly. “Try again, Thor. He won’t hurt you.” 

 

This time Thor scratches the dog briefly behind the ear. “He’s sof’,” he says, and is rewarded with a frenetic tail wag and a lick to the hand. He pulls his hand back again and wipes it on Clint’s pantleg.

 

“That means he likes you,” she assures him. Thor looks up at Clint with a wide-eyed grin.

 

“Gowiaf wikes me!” He sounds so proud of himself that Clint doesn’t have the heart to tell him that Goliath likes _everyone_. They got the dog to guard the property, but it quickly became obvious that he would be no help against intruders, unless maybe they were allergic to dog slobber or something.

 

“That’s great, buddy,” Clint says, patting Thor on the back distractedly while trying to follow Nathaniel’s story, which has taken a left turn and now appears to be related to someone who wronged him at preschool. Clint glances at Laura, hoping she’ll help him understand what the heck Nathaniel is talking about, but she just shakes her head and mouths, “You don’t want to know.”

 

“Hey, Cooper and Lila, why don’t you guys take Thor outside and show him around,” Clint suggests as he sets Nathaniel back on the ground. Thor takes a step back behind Clint’s leg and eyes Cooper warily.

 

“Is he ‘till a teenager?” Thor asks in a stage whisper. “He doesn’t wook wike a gobwin.”

 

 _The eye is offended_. “Very funny, dad,” Cooper deadpans.

 

“He doesn’t bite,” Clint promises, which is almost true. Cooper only bites with words. Sarcasm is his weapon of choice, which makes him more similar to his old man than Clint is willing to admit. “Go on, guys. Thor, you’ll have fun.”

 

“Come on, Thor!” Lila says, taking Thor’s hand on one side and Nathaniel’s on the other. “Let’s go see some cool stuff!” As they skip off toward the barn with Cooper and Goliath trailing after, Clint decides he forgives Lila for having the audacity to grow up, because make-up or no, she is one awesome kid.

 

Laura leads the way into the kitchen, where she fills up a vase and pops the flowers in, even though they are clearly not going to make it because half their stems are broken. She’s pretty incredible too. Clint wouldn’t put it past her to somehow be able to resurrect the flowers, that’s how incredible she is. Clint drops his backpack and Thor’s cape and the bag of vomit-soaked clothes on the table, along with all three Bucky bears in a row like a police line-up. 

 

“You didn’t tell me he was so sweet,” Laura says, watching the kids out the window, where Nathaniel is trying to pull open the barn door.

 

“Yeah, well, he wants to impress you guys so you’ll like him.”

 

Thor steps in to help open the door, and Nathaniel stands back with his arms folded to let Thor struggle alone.

 

“So can we keep him?”

 

“I’m not sure yet. We just need to take things slow. Unless things change, we’ll have a long time to figure it out. Years and years.” 

 

Now Lila and Cooper both reach over Thor’s head and pull the door open. They all troop inside, leaving Nathaniel outside with his arms still folded and a scowl on his face that could strip the paint off the walls.

 

“Well, in the meantime he’s a little boy who needs a family.”

 

“Yeah, there is that. I’m a little concerned about how Nathaniel is going to get along with him.” 

 

“He’ll be fine, just give him time. He’s always complaining he doesn’t have anyone his size to play with.”

 

As if he heard her, Nathaniel finally finishes his sulk and stomps in to join the rest of the kids in the barn, leaving Clint and Laura alone. Clint slides his hand onto Laura’s back and tugs her around. “As long as we have a minute. . .”

 

He pulls her in for a kiss, which she returns whole-heartedly. God, he’s missed this. His wife. His family. His home. He should have come here weeks ago, brought the kid. . .

 

Laura breaks the kiss and frowns out the window. “Hey, it’s raining. Should we call the kids in?”

 

“Raining? It was blue sky just a few minutes ago. Shit—“ Clint looks out to see that dark clouds are have gathered. Heavy raindrops kick up little puffs of dust in the driveway. “That’s not normal.” He runs to the door and flings it open just as lightning flashes across the sky. He and Laura hurry out onto the porch just as Cooper and Nathaniel come sprinting toward them through the downpour. Lila follows, holding back the dog who is barking his fool head off at the thunder. No Thor in sight. 

 

“What the hell happened?!” Clint shouts.

 

“It was an accident!!” Cooper yells back, “I was trying to teach him how to ride a bike but I pushed him too hard and he ran into Lila. Of course she started screaming—“

 

“I didn’t mean to upset him!”

 

“Where did he go?” Laura asks.

 

“He freaked out and ran away!” Lila cries, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!!”

 

“Ok, kids, go in the house and stay there. Laura, he’ll probably be hiding in some small space. That’s what he always does.”

 

Laura ducks inside and comes out with two flashlights, one of which she hands to Clint. “You check the barn and I’ll hit the shed,” she says grimly.

 

“If you find him, call me over and I’ll get him out.”

 

“Ok.”

 

Clint heads for the barn, flashlight in hand, and immediately wishes he was wearing a coat with a hood. By the time he gets there, he’s soaked through his lightweight jacket and his hair is dripping into his eyes. Inside the barn, Clint tries to listen for Thor crying, but the rain is pounding so hard on the roof that it’s pointless. “Thor?” he calls tentatively, but hears no response, so he starts opening doors and peeking in empty stalls. He’s opened about half the cupboards and supply closets and come up empty when he gets a text from Laura. 

 

_Found him_

 

**Is he ok?**

 

_Yes_

 

**I’ll come get him**

 

_No need. I’ve got him. In the meantime, can you check on the chicken? It’s probably read to come out of the oven._

 

**Ok**

 

_Stick the thermometer in a thigh piece_

 

**I can handle it**

 

_Sure you can. And have the kids set the table too_

 

**I’m on it already. Geez**

 

When Clint gets back to the house, he is met at the front door by a very worried-looking Lila, still soaking wet and holding onto the dog. “Is he ok?”

 

“Yes. Mom’s got him. He’s fine.”

 

“Good. I’m going to go get changed.”

 

“Hang on a second. Mom wants you to check if the chicken is ready.”

 

“Can’t you do that?” she says. Clint stares at her blankly. “Wait, what am I saying?” Rolling her eyes, she shoves the dog at him. “Never mind, Dad, I’ve got it.”

 

While Lila shoves the meat thermometer into a piece of chicken like she’s taking revenge on her enemies, Clint watches the weather out the window. It’s pouring down rain—water is starting to collect in puddles and run in little rivulets down the driveway. Laura probably needs his help. He should go out there and get the kid before the barn floods. He should—

 

The rain abruptly stops and the clouds suddenly part, leaving everything bathed in an almost otherwordly glow of golden sunlight. Clint gapes out the window at the shed to see the door open, and Laura, with a grinning Thor in her arms, step out into a sunbeam like she came directly from heaven. And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is why Clint feels like the luckiest man on earth.

 

And then he looks around at the table, which is still covered with all the crap he dropped there when he first walked in. The kids’ discarded shoes and coats are scattered around on the floor next to the door, and a trail of muddy dog prints leads from the entryway into the living room where a still-soaked Goliath is standing on the couch barking frantically out the window at Thor as if he is a brand new intruder and instead of a person the stupid dog met just a few minutes ago.

 

“Goliath, quiet!” Clint snaps. The dog does not obey, so he raises his voice to be heard over the barking. “Kids! Get in here and help set the table. Quick, before your mom comes in!”

 

Lila and Cooper slide into the kitchen in their socks and start grabbing the discarded items off the table. Nathaniel stands in the doorway with his arms folded and a grumpy expression on his face until Cooper shoves a pile of napkins into his hands. Clint moves around the chairs to add one for Thor, set optimistically next to Nathaniel’s, and Cooper slings plates onto the table like a pro while Lila arranges silverware and straightens the napkins that Nathaniel has thunked down in the vicinity of each plate like each one is _killing him_. After they have all the dishes on, Clint grabs Thor’s cup and exchanges it for one with a lid because the kid has already been baptized once today. By the time Laura reaches the door, the table is all set, the chicken has been removed from the oven, and the children are sitting at their places with their hands washed (well, Clint is fairly sure that Nathaniel only rinsed his fingertips, but close enough).

 

“We’re sorry, Thor,” Lila says with a bright smile.

 

“Yeah, sorry,” Cooper chimes in. Nathaniel stares at his plate and doesn’t even bother to try to look pleasant. 

 

“Dat’s ok, Wady Wiwa. I’m sorry too.”

 

“I’m fine, you didn’t hurt me.”

 

“Nathaniel?” Clint prompts.

 

“I didn’t do anything wrong, daddy,” Nathaniel protests.

 

Clint has to admit that he can’t put his finger on anything exactly, but he’s about to call out Nathaniel’s attitude anyway when Laura says cheerfully, “Great, everyone’s sorry and we’re all fine, so no harm done. Mmm, that chicken smells delicious. Thor, let’s wash our hands and then we can eat.”

 

“Wash our hands? Why?”

 

Judging by the look Laura shoots him, Clint is in deep, deep shit. 

 

“So our hands will be clean and we won’t get any germs in our food.”

 

“Oh,” Thor says, looking completely mystified, but he lets Laura stand him on the stool next to the sink, and push up his sleeves, and scrub his filthy hands without protest, so that’s good. Then it’s time for Thor to sit in the chair next to Nathaniel. Nope, not happening. The way Nathaniel is scowling, Clint doesn’t blame the kid.

 

“I need to sit in your wap,” Thor whispers to Clint. Outside the window the clouds are rushing back in, blotting out the bright sun, so Clint hauls him up and sets him on his knee, where he anxiously eyes the dishes of food that are being passed around.

 

“What is dat?” Thor asks Clint as he dishes out some green beans on his own plate.

 

“They’re green beans. They’re good,” Laura answers for him. Her tone is cheerful but there’s steel behind it. Clint can tell that his kids are watching out of the corners of their eyes (well, one eye in Cooper’s case) to see what will happen. This is not a battle that Laura has ever lost.

 

“I don’t wike dem,” Thor says with a hint of panic in his voice. Oh shit, here it comes. None of their kids ever dared question Laura’s authority when it came to whether or not they would eat their dinner, because they knew it wasn’t negotiable. This is dinner and you eat it, and you say “thank you.”

 

“Hmm. . .” Laura says. Clint dares to look up and finds Laura tapping her chin and watching little Thor with her eyebrows raised. To his relief, she says, “For tonight you can choose. Do you want to try the green beans or the chicken?”

 

Thor eyes the beans, then the chicken, then back to the beans. Clint is afraid he will refuse to eat them both, but finally he says, “Ok, Wady Waura, I will fy the chicken. Dat’s wike dragon nuggets, right, Uncuh Cwint?”

 

“Yeah, it’s the same meat. You’ll definitely like that.”

 

Nathaniel has set up straighter in his chair, eyes wide. “I don’t want to eat any yucky green bea—“ he starts, but Laura fixes him with The Look (yes, that one! The one that Clint needs to take notes on) and he immediately shuts his mouth.

 

Thor eats three helpings of chicken, and even tries the world’s tiniest bite of rice, with his fingers, while Clint’s kids watch, aghast. Finally Laura picks up Thor’s fork. “Here, Thor, let me show you how to hold the fork.” She demonstrates the proper grasp while Thor watches attentively. Clint is mentally shaking his head (he doesn’t dare do so physically) at her naivety. Even adult Thor doesn’t eat with a fork; how’s this squirrelly little kid gonna master it?

 

Thor lets Laura mold his hand to the right shape and rest the fork against the webbing of his thumb, and then she guides his hand down to scoop up a bite of food and ferry it to his mouth. “Good job, Thor!” Laura and Lila both exclaim. Thor’s face lights up at the praise.

 

“Cwint, I did it!!” he cries through a mouthful of chicken.

 

“Yes, you did.”

 

Face screwed up in concentration, Thor clutches the fork and pokes at the next piece of chicken. After a few attempts, he gets it stuck on the tines but when he tries to lift it to his mouth, it falls off again. Undeterred, he tries again with the same results. “Uncuh Cwint, help me eat dis,” he says, holding out his right hand. So this is how Clint ends up eating the rest of his meal, with his right hand wrapped around Thor’s, and his left hand feeding himself. Fun times.

 

* * *

 

After dinner, Nathaniel basically proceeds to ignore Thor for the rest of the evening, while Thor follows him around like a sad-eyed puppy. The only time Nathaniel takes any notice of his new shadow is when Thor tries to interact in any way with one of his suddenly-precious belongings.

 

“Daddy, he touched my Nerf guns!”

 

“Don’t you have three of them?”

 

“But this is my special one! He can’t touch it!”

 

“Daddy, he’s looking at my Legos!”

 

“He won’t hurt them by looking at them, for crying out loud!”

 

After Nathaniel yanks the third toy out of Thor’s hands, the kid stuffs the hem of his sleeve in his mouth and crawls up into Clint’s lap, where he watches Nathaniel through his lashes. Outside the sky has gone from bright blue to slate gray, and a light rain is starting to fall. Nathaniel, who has been pointedly ignoring Clint all evening too, suddenly cries, “Daddy, why is _he_ sitting in your lap? _I_ want to sit in your lap!”

 

“I have two knees. You can both sit in my lap.”

 

Clint shifts Thor to one knee, picks up Nathaniel, and sets him on the other knee, where he immediately begins jockeying for position. When Nathaniel pushes Thor’s unresisting leg out of the way, nearly knocking him off Clint’s lap, Clint has had enough. Just as he’s about to tell Nathaniel exactly what he thinks of his behavior, he hears Laura clear her throat. Next thing he knows, Thor has been lifted off his lap and replaced with a book—not just any book, it’s Nathaniel’s favorite book: Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. Laura swears it’s Nathaniel’s autobiography.

 

“Read to him,” Laura mutters under her breath to Clint. What, he’s supposed to reward Nathaniel for his shitty attitude? Clint’s about to protest, but Laura has already turned her best maternal smile on Thor. “Thor, why don’t you come over here and do a puzzle with Lila and me?” Aww. . . she thinks Thor is going to sit and do a puzzle. That’s adorab—Oh, the wild child has settled onto her lap and picked up a piece of the puzzle that Laura and Lila are working on.

 

“Dis is a puzzoh?”

 

“Yes, see, these two pieces fit together like this.”

 

“Oh, wow! Dat’s reawwy cweber!” 

 

Cooper pulls off his headphones, puts his Starkpad aside, and joins them at the table. He subtly scoots a couple of pieces closer to Thor, and a second later he picks them up and exclaims, “Hey wook, I finded some dat go togeder!” Even though Thor is smiling now, outside the rain is still coming down. Clint realizes that from Thor’s perspective, acceptance from Laura, Lila, and even Cooper mean little compared to Nathaniel, who he knows Thor is hoping will be the substitute for the little brother he lost. So of course it’s Nathaniel who has to reject him outright.

 

“Daddy, are you going to read the book?” the boy in question says sweetly, as if he hadn’t been being a holy terror for the past hour. Ropy lines of yellow-green snot hang from both nostrils almost to his mouth.

 

“I’ll read it if you wipe your nose.”

 

In response, Nathaniel licks his upper lip, then drags his sleeve across under his nose, transferring the mucous to his sleeve and back of his hand like a shiny slug trail.“Ok, I’m ready to read now,” he says, reaching out and opening the book with his snot-covered hand. Oh, the joys of parenting. They don’t tell you about this one in those useless prenatal classes.

 

* * *

 

Hey, bedtime, and Thor is already dressed in his pajamas! Isn’t that lucky! And Lila even manages to convince him to open his mouth for the toothbrush. Cooper has “agreed” (well, more like “didn’t throw an active fit about it”) to sleep on the couch in the den for the night so Thor can have his bed.

 

Laura takes Thor by the hand and shows him where he’s going to sleep while Clint makes the rounds. First Cooper, who is stretched out on the couch covered in a faded Thomas the Tank Engine comforter that Laura pulled out of the back of the linen closet. Clint remembers that comforter from when Cooper first transitioned from a crib to a “big boy bed.” Now his size ten feet stick out the end. He lifts his hand to return Clint’s wave goodnight without even taking off his headphones. Clint can hear the music from all the way over by the door. 

 

“Ten more minutes, then lights out, ok?” Clint calls. Was that a nod? Sure, Clint’s going to take that as a nod. 

 

Next Lila, who has a long story to tell him about her friend Jenny and her horse, and that quickly morphs into all the reasons why their family needs a horse and how useful it would be around the farm ("It can pull a plow, Daddy!") and how well Lila would take care of it. After Lila has laid out all her arguments, Clint plays his trump card: “Ask your mother.” Judging by Lila's crestfallen expression, she already knows what the response to that would be.

 

Next is Nathaniel, who has Questions. “How long is he gonna stay here, dad?”

 

“A couple of days at least. Do you want your new bear on your bed?”

 

“No,” Nathaniel grumps. “Can you at least tell him not to touch my toys?”

 

Clint takes a steadying breath and lets it out through his nose. “Nathaniel, you didn’t care about those Nerf guns at all until he started playing with them. What gives?”

 

“I don’t want him touching my toys.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because—because they’re _mine_! They belong to _me_.”

 

“You have three of them. You could play with him.”

 

“I don’t want to. He’s always in my way. I didn’t even have room to sit on your lap when he was there.”

 

“You’re always asking for a brother your own age. Now here’s a boy your age who would love to play with you. Why don’t you play with him?”

 

“I don’t _want to,_ ” Nathaniel says stubbornly, arms folded and lips pressed together into a terrific scowl.

 

“Well, you can at least be polite then. No more pushing him and taking toys out of his hands.”

 

There is silence from the little grouchy lump under the covers.

 

“The words you’re looking for are ‘Yes, dad’,” Clint reminds him, much more gently than he feels.

 

A few more seconds, then Nathaniel huffs and says reluctantly, “Yes, dad.”

 

“That’s my boy. Tomorrow is a new day. I love you, Nathaniel.”

 

Nathaniel just turns his face toward the wall and doesn’t respond, so Clint kisses the side of his head and goes out, leaving the door cracked open behind him.

 

Finally it’s Thor, who is sitting up in the bed with the corner of the cape stuffed in his mouth. As Clint tucks him in, Thor is very quiet, although Clint is sure he must be anxious about having to sleep alone, among other things.

 

While he’s arranging the cape on top of the covers, Clint says, “Well, what do you think?”

 

“You have a nice home and a nice famiwy,” Thor says evenly. Clint’s having trouble reading his usually expressive face, but outside the rain is coming down in a steady stream.

 

“Do you. . . like them?”

 

“Waura and Wiwa and Cooper are bery nice to me.”

 

“That’s good.” Clint pulls the covers up to Thor’s chin and tucks the cape in around his shoulders.

 

“Cwint?”

 

“Yes, buddy?”

 

“Does Uncuh Bucky know how to fwy the airpwane?”

 

“Um. . . yeah. Why?” 

 

“Maybe tomorrow he can come get me and you can ‘tay here wif your famiwy.”

 

Clint pulls back in surprise. “Do you want to go home already? Without me?”

 

“I fink dat would be better. Dey would wike dat better. Maybe Uncuh Bucky can bring Nafanyo his ‘cooter and fucks and Wegos.”

 

“He doesn’t need those things here. He has other toys.”

 

“He doesn’t want me to pway wif his toys.”

 

“Thor, it’s ok, I promise. I said you could play with those toys and you can.”

 

Thor’s fingers work their way out from under the blankets to pluck at the damp corner of the cape. “Ok, Cwint,” he says finally.

 

Clint sighs. “Look, I’m not going to have Bucky come and get you. You can make it a couple more days.”

 

The corner of the cape goes back into Thor’s mouth. “Ok, Cwint.”

 

“Good,” Clint says, patting the cape-covered pile of blankets. “Now, are you gonna be ok in here?” When Thor doesn’t respond, Clint continues, “I’ll be just down the hall. I’ll leave the door open a little. Ok?”

 

“Yes, I’ll be ok,” Thor says Bravely, but his lip is wobbly and there’s a bump between his eyebrows as big as Steve’s. 

 

“Come on, Thor, you’re going to be fine.”

 

“Will Waura wike me if I ‘tay in my bed?” Thor asks in a quavery little voice.

 

“She will like you either way, but it will make her very happy if you can sleep in your bed.”

 

“I will fy. If I get ‘cared can I come sweep wif you?”

 

Clint’s resolve starts to crumble, but he really really wants a night alone with his wife. Just one night. That’s not too much to ask, right? “Just try to stay in here, ok, buddy?”

 

“Ok, Cwint, I will fy.”

 

“Good boy. I’ll leave the door open a little and the hall light on.” He gives the blankets one last pat and leaves quickly before he can change his mind. He’s all the way to the door to his room before he realizes that Thor wasn’t calling him “Uncuh Cwint”. What’s up with that?

 

Laura is waiting for him in bed. She’s got her hair down the way Clint likes it, and she’s got that smile he likes too. God, he’s missed her. Too bad he’s a bit distracted at the moment by kid drama.

 

“Everybody tucked in ok?” she asks.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Everything ok?”

 

Clint pauses in pulling off his shirt, “Yeah, I guess so. It’s just. . .”

 

“Just what?”

 

“It’s just. . . I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.” He puts his pajama bottoms on and sits down on the bed next to her. She pats him on the back and gives him a gentle tug toward her. He gladly leans back against her with his head on her stomach. Her hands feel so good in his hair, it almost makes him forget the frustrations of the past month.

 

“With Thor?”

 

“Yeah, I guess so. I mean, what am I going to do with him?”

 

“Love him. Take care of him. Feed him.”

 

“I’m just worried about how he’ll turn out. He’s the god of thunder, for crying out loud. He’s always been the bravest, most confident person I know. It’s hard to see him scared of his own shadow. He can’t sleep in his own bed, insists on being carried everywhere, barely lets me out of his sight.”

 

“You know what happened to him. He’s a traumatized little boy. Just give him time.”

 

“But there’s so much he needs to learn that I have no idea how to teach him. Like what about controlling the weather? And FLYING?! Not to mention the fact that he’s going to outlive us all.”

 

“We’ll figure it out. We just have to give him time.”

 

“We, as in you and me?”

 

“I’m willing to help.”

 

Clint is about to thank her when she continues, “You know I’m a sucker for puppy-dog eyes. That’s why I’m attracted to you.”

 

“Hmpf. Right. What are we going to do about Nathaniel? He’s acting like a little pill.”

 

“He just jealous, Clint. He misses you.”

 

“Ya think?”

 

“Tell you what, tomorrow you spend time with him doing Nathaniel things—“

 

“So, looking for bugs and worms,” Clint interrupts.

 

“Right. And I’ll take Thor for a while. I’ve got an idea in mind for him. Nathaniel wouldn’t mind that—he gets plenty of my attention anyway.”

 

“I’m already sick of his bad attitude.”

 

“He needs time to warm up. You know that’s how he is.”

 

Clint knows Laura’s right, and he also realizes Thor and Nathaniel are two sides to the same coin. Nathaniel is grumpy and standoffish while Thor is anxious and clingy, but both will be your best friend if you give them time to warm up. While he's examining this conclusion, Clint feels Laura’s lips press to his temple, just above his ear. Hey, they’re alone, and she’s amazing, and the door is locked, so maybe. . . He turns and kisses her, which she returns enthusiastically. Yes, this could work, he thinks, sliding his hand up under her nightshirt. This could—

 

They are interrupted by a lightning bolt outside the window, followed quickly by a distant boom of thunder. Clint freezes with his hand on Laura’s stomach. A few seconds later he hears the sound of little footprints outside the door, then nothing. With a sigh, he gives Laura one last forlorn kiss then hauls himself out of bed and opens the door, to find Thor sitting right outside the door wrapped in his cape and hugging the bear. The kid looks up at him with wide, frightened eyes that melt Clint’s heart.

 

“Hey, Thor. . . want to sleep in here?”

 

“I had a bad dream. Will Waura be mad at me?”

 

“No, honey, I’m not mad,” Laura calls from the bed, where she has already scooted over to make room for Thor, “Come on in.”

 

Clint carries Thor to the bed and settles him in between them, where he climbs under the covers and starts trying to arrange the cape over himself. He can’t quite get the corners straight, so Laura gently takes the edge and fixes it. Thor snuggles in, eyes at half-mast.

 

“Fank you, Mama,” he mumbles sleepily. “—I mean, Waura. I know you’re not my mama. I know she’s dead.”

 

Laura bites her lip and glances up at Clint, eyes brimming. “It’s all right, Thor. I’m not mad at you,” she says as she smooths down his tangled hair. “Good night, sweetheart.” She leans in and kisses him on the temple, but he’s asleep already, with his little fingers curled into the sleeve of her nightshirt.


	23. Betchabohs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor just really wants a younger brother like Loki.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doggone it, the scenes at the house keep getting longer and longer. I mean, one paragraph in my outline turns into three pages or more in my story. So sorry, Loki isn't ready to make an appearance yet. It'll be soon, I promise!

 

* * *

 

 

Clint wakes in the morning to sun streaming in the windows. What the hell time is it? He looks to his left to check the clock on the nightstand, which blinks merrily 6:37 a.m. Thor let him sleep in? He looks to his right and sees Thor curled up asleep against Laura, who is awake and smiling at him.

 

So, after 6:30? Why can’t he hear Ferdinand the cow (yes, a cow. Hazard of letting a three-year-old Lila name her) and her calf Elsa (a male, named by Nathaniel) demanding breakfast? Clint sits up a little and peeks out the window to see Cooper, wearing outgrown Ironman pj pants and rubber boots, carrying a bucket out to the barn. Lila, also in pjs and boots, is feeding the chickens. Goliath prances along at her heels. Laura’s got them well-trained.

 

Thor yawns and stretches sleepily. “Good morning, Waura,” he says, favoring her with one of those light-up-the-room smiles. So Clint is now officially chopped liver.

 

“Good morning, Thor. Would you like some breakfast?”

 

“Yes, pwease. I would wike Top-Tarps.”

 

“We don’t have Pop-tarts here,” says Laura, because she doesn’t know about the emergency box Clint has stashed in the bottom of his suitcase (luckily neither does Thor), “I’m planning to make pancakes.”

 

“I don’t wike pancakes.”

 

“Yet.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“You don’t like pancakes _yet_.”

 

This turns out to be a very true statement. Thor does, in fact, like pancakes very much, once they are drenched in enough syrup to choke the proverbial horse. He likes them so much a fork isn’t fast enough to eat them, so he reverts to his fingers to stuff them into his mouth as fast as Laura can flip them onto his plate.

 

Nathaniel suddenly announces he doesn’t like pancakes anymore, to which Laura replies, “Fine, you don’t have to have any,” and takes his plate away and eats his pancakes herself while he watches her in silent shock. The rest of breakfast he sits in snot-nosed silence, slowly chewing on a piece of bacon and watching longingly while everyone else inhales their pancakes. When Thor offers him one of his pancakes, Nathaniel glares at him and pushes the plate away.

 

By the time Thor’s done with the pancakes (well, he’s not done wanting to eat them, but Laura is done making them), he’s covered head to toe in sticky goo. When it’s clear that the pancake train has left the station, Thor gets up to leave the table. Laura clears her throat.

 

“Yes, Wady Waura?”

 

Laura nods toward the table, where Nathaniel, Lila and Cooper have picked up their plates and glasses to take them to the sink. Thor’s plate and lidded cup are still sitting on the table alone. Thor looks at the table, then back at Laura, completely mystified. He glances at Clint for clarification, but Clint is busy drinking his coffee and pretending like he doesn’t see Laura raising her eyebrows at him. God, he is in so much trouble.

 

“Your plate,” Laura prompts.

“Yes, I’m finished wif it. Fank you,” Thor says, watching Laura’s face to see if he has it right. No, he does not have it right.

 

After another minute of silent eyebrow messages from Laura that Thor misses completely, Clint takes pity on the kid. “Here, buddy, you have to clear your plate.”

 

“My pwate is cwear. See? It’s empty.”

 

“No, clear as in clear the table. Look, napkin goes in the trash here.” He helps Thor throw his napkin away, and shows him how to put the plate in the dishwasher. 

 

“We neber do dis at—,” Thor starts, but Clint shushes him.

 

“Ha ha, yes we do. All the time. You just don’t remember.”

 

“I fink—“

 

“You don’t remember,” Clint says emphatically. It’s hard to tell if Thor catches on or not, but he doesn’t say anything else, so that’s good. 

 

That task completed, Laura takes Thor in hand and he lets her wash his hands and face, and changes into shorts and a Spider-man t-shirt without a peep of complaint. He even _walks_ to the bedroom to change. This is _unfair_. When Clint expresses surprise, Laura just shrugs and says, “I don’t know what your problem is. He’s a complete lamb.”

 

 _Ha! Just wait, Laura._ He lures you in with that whole ‘butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth’ act, then pretty soon he’ll be asking to call you ‘Auntie Waura’, and next thing you know— _bam!—_ You’re toasting Pop-tarts at four in the morning wondering what the hell happened.

 

While he’s finishing his coffee, Laura walks back out again with Thor, who is wearing a pair of Lila’s outgrown boots (purple with yellow flowers, not that Thor cares). She’s carrying two baskets. “Come on outside, Thor, I want to show you something.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“We’re going to see where our food comes from.”

 

“We are??”

 

“Yep, let’s go.” She gives him one of the baskets and takes his small hand. “You’re a big boy. You can walk, right?”

 

“Yes, Waura,” Thor says agreeably. As they pass Clint, Laura raises her eyebrows at him and looks down at the top of Thor’s head like _See how easy this is?_

 

This is SO UNFAIR.

 

After they troop out with Goliath taking up the rear, Clint catches a glimpse of Nathaniel standing just outside the entrance to the kitchen having a sulk. His nose is encrusted with congealed snot. Lila and Cooper have disappeared somewhere, leaving him and Nathaniel alone.

 

“Hey, Nathaniel,” Clint says, “Let’s do something together, just you and me!”

 

“Not _him_?”

 

“Nope, Thor’s going to hang out with mom. You have me all to yourself.”

Nathaniel looks back and forth between Clint and the hallway, obviously reluctant to give up his justifiable foul mood. “I wanted to dig up some worms in the field today, but Cooper won’t go with me and I’m not allowed to go by myself.” He wipes at his nose with his sleeve, leaving a shiny smear across his cheek.

 

“That sounds like fun. Let’s do it!” Clint says with forced cheerfulness, because digging up worms for no reason sounds like the worst kind of torture, but it’s worth it to see Nathaniel smile.

 

“Yeah, daddy! I’ll get my bucket and magnifying glass!”

 

And Clint will bring some tissues, not that Nathaniel will use them. Who needs a tissue when you’ve got a perfectly good shirtsleeve?

 

* * *

 

Clint ends up crouching in the mud, holding a bucket and shovel while Nathaniel lays on his belly examining worms through the magnifying glass (“Look at this one, Daddy! Look at its clitellum!” “. . . Its what? You know what, never mind. That’s pretty cool, bud.”). 

 

As he’s trying to subtly stretch his aching knees, he can see Thor and Laura in the garden nearby. Thor is bent over pulling on something, and a second later he pops up holding a carrot. Clint hears his cry of “WOOK, WAURA!” as he brandishes it in excitement. Together they both exclaim over the carrot (“Wook! It’s bumpy! It’s got two parts wike wegs!” “That’s because the carrot is the root. This one grew around a rock.”), then Thor puts it carefully in his basket.

 

“Let’s go wash it off,” Laura says, leading the way to the hose spigot. Thor tromps after her, lifting each foot high to avoid getting stuck in the mud. Clint turns his attention back to Nathaniel, who has picked up the worm and is intently examining one end with the magnifying glass, while snot flows unheeded over his upper lip.

 

“This is the anus. See, Daddy? It’s pooping!”

 

* * *

 

As they finally head back to the house, with a bucketful of worms that Nathaniel apparently has some Very Important Plans for, Clint spots Laura coming back from the vicinity of the orchard with Thor, who is carrying a full basket, zig-zagging back and forth in front of Laura, jumping and splashing in puddles with obvious delight. His voice carries across the yard. 

 

“WAURA, NAFANYO’S HAIR IS BWACK WIKE WOKI’S, BUT WOKI’S EYES AREN’T BROWN! CAN NAFANYO DO MAGIC?”

 

“Um. . . no.”

 

“WOKI CAN DO FICKS. HE CAN MAKE YOU FINK HE IS IN ONE PWACE WHEN REAWWY HE IS IN ANODER.”

 

“Really? That’s interesting. Be careful you don’t spill your basket.”

 

“MY BA’KET IS REAWWY FULL! WAURA! I HAD A DREAM DAT A WUDDOWUH DE’FOYED MY FWIFYOH AN’ CWINT SABED ME.”

 

“A. . . Uh. . . what?”

 

“A WUDDOWUH! AN’ DERE WERE WOTS OF GWIFIWUH’S DERE!”

 

“Ok, huh. That sounds. . . scary. . .?”

 

“No, it was SIWWY!” 

 

“. . . Ooookay.”

 

As they get closer, Clint can see there’s something red around his mouth and chin. Did Laura take some jam sandwiches out there with them?

 

They reach the back porch at almost the same time, so Laura shows Clint her basket, which contains an assortment of fruits and veggies harvested from her garden, including several plums (Clint’s favorite!) and a bunch of Brussels sprouts (not Clint’s favorite!).

 

“Unc—um—“ Thor looks around and spots Nathaniel, who is standing off to the side glaring at him. “Um—Cwint, WOOK!” he cries, holding his basket aloft like he’s a hunter and it’s a fresh kill. “We finded some betchabohs!”

 

Clint peers into the basket, which contains not only several carrots, but also a couple dozen cherries, a handful of blueberries, snap peas and green beans, and baby tomatoes scattered on top. “Some what?”

 

“Betchabohs and fruits! Dey are dewicioso!”

 

Clint takes a closer look at the redness around Thor’s mouth. Cherry juice? “Did you. . .eat some of those, buddy?”

 

“I eated ALL of dem! Wook! Dese are ‘matoes, wike MATER!! Dese are baby ones because dey are widdoh!”

 

“That’s. . . wow. . .you ate all of them?”

 

“Yes!”

 

Clint claps Thor on the shoulder in delight. “That’s great, buddy! I’m very proud of you!” 

 

Thor, flashing an ear-to-ear grin, exclaims, “Dey tas’ good! See dese ones? Dese are cherries. Dey grow on fees. And dese are called bwueberries, eben dough dey are purpoh.”

 

“Oh, right. We need to take some of those home for Uncle Tony.”

 

“Ok. Waura! Can we pick more bwueberries for Uncuh Tony?!”

 

“Sure, we can pick some later. Right now we can prep some of these to serve with lunch and dinner.”

 

“OK!” Thor sits down on the doormat and starts pulling off his muddy boots. Clint notices that Nathaniel has headed into the house with his boots still on and his bucket in his hand.

 

“Nathaniel, take your boots off out here,” Clint calls, before he gets in trouble with Laura, “and leave your bucket outside.” Nathaniel freezes in the doorway, head lowered and shoulders hunched. “Come on, pal, you know worms don’t go inside the house.”

 

“ _He’s_ in my way,” Nathaniel says frostily. Thor immediately jumps up, picks up his boots, and backs out of the entryway.

 

“There’s plenty of room out here to take your boots off,” Clint replies, keeping his tone reasonable even though Nathaniel isn’t. “Now, please.”

 

With another glare at Thor (who has backed up so far he almost falls off the steps), Nathaniel thunks his bucket down outside the door and toes off his boots, making sure to kick them in Thor’s direction before he heads inside. Thor is biting his lip and blinking hard. Poor kid—it’s so glaringly obvious that he just wants a friend, and here Nathaniel is acting like a complete ass.

 

“Thor, how about if we have some of these plums for lunch?” Laura says brightly, putting her arm around Thor’s slumped shoulders. He gives her a sad nod, so she continues, “We’ll have lunch in a few minutes, ok? You can play until then.”

 

Thor chews on his lip as he looks around hesitantly at the various toys scattered around the deck, and then at the doorway where Nathaniel has disappeared. “Ok.”

 

“Good boy.” She gives him a little pat, then takes his basket and heads inside. Clint follows and somehow ends up carrying both baskets to the kitchen. He doesn’t even know how that happened, just suddenly they are both in his hands and he is taking them to the sink while Laura pours herself a cup of lukewarm coffee left over from breakfast.

 

“Oh my god he’s exhausting,” Laura says, dropping into a chair and upending her cup to take a huge gulp of coffee. “He runs EVERYWHERE! And he shouts everything.” So maybe she’s not finding this so easy after all. Clint’s having trouble feeling sorry for her when she was so goddamn smug before.

 

“Wears you down, huh?” Clint automatically starts unloading everything from the baskets onto the counter. He has missed fresh produce so much! No need to wait until lunch, right? He picks up a perfectly ripe plum and rinses it under the faucet. There are six more in the basket. He can eat this one now and another one at lunchtime, and no one will be the wiser.

 

“God yes. I’m ready for a nap already.”

 

Clint’s about to respond when he hears raised voices from the living room, first Nathaniel, shouting angrily, “That’s mine!” and then Thor, voice higher-pitched with anxiety, “No, dat one is yours! I need dis one!!”

 

He and Laura exchange a glance. Should they intervene, or let the boys figure it out on their own? Clouds are starting to gather outside. Clint takes a step toward the living room, but Laura shakes her head and holds up her hand. As they both stand frozen, a series of thuds come from the other room, then a horrible ripping sound followed immediately by an even more horrible wail from Thor, then a clap of thunder. Clint drops the plum and runs toward the living room, with Laura on his heels.

 

“Stop crying! You’re a _baby_!”

 

The wail continues. Clint rounds the corner to find Thor sitting on the floor, face red and awash in tears, holding most of a Bucky Bear in his right hand, and the detached arm in his left. The other Bucky Bear lies abandoned, facedown in the corner. Nathaniel stands in the center of the room, also red-faced, fists clenched and feet planted apart in a fighting stance.

 

Clint heads toward Thor, but he’s looking at Nathaniel, who seems completely unrepentant. “What happened here?!” Clint cries, even though it’s obvious. Nathaniel says nothing. Thor is still bawling, so Clint crouches down next to him and opens his arms. Thor flies into them, almost knocking him off-balance. He buries his face in Clint’s shoulder and sobs uncontrollably.

 

Nathaniel’s face contorts in fury. “YOU LIKE HIM BETTER THAN ME!!” he screams. Oh, crap. Jealous indeed.

 

“Nathaniel. . .” Laura starts. Nathaniel takes off toward his bedroom, thundering down the hall and slamming his bedroom door behind him. 

 

“Nafanyo doesn’t wike me!” Thor wails against Clint’s shoulder. “Nafanyo doesn’t wike me!!”

 

So much toddler-logic, so many little boy emotions, Clint doesn’t know which way to turn. He looks down the hall where his son has disappeared, and then down at the sobbing child in his arms, then up at Laura, who looks like she is about to cry herself.

 

“Go after him,” she says, crouching down beside them, “I’ve got Thor.”

 

Oh, that’s probably better than Clint’s idea, which was to let the two of them duke it out Thunderdome-style (TWO TODDLERS ENTER. ONE TODDLER LEAVES!). That probably wouldn’t end well, considering Thor has the weather on his side.

 

“Yeah, ok. Thor, go to Laura.”

 

Thor doesn’t move, so Clint carefully transfers Thor’s arm to Laura’s neck. “It’s ok, buddy, he doesn’t hate you.” At least, he won’t when Clint is done with him. Clint hopes. 

 

Clint listens at the door to Nathaniel’s room for a few seconds. He can hear throaty sobs coming from inside, but when he knocks, they immediately stop. 

 

“GO AWAY!” 

 

“Come on, Nathaniel, I want to talk to you.”

 

The only response is silence. Clint decides that means yes, so he slowly opens the door and sticks his head in. Nathaniel is sitting cross-legged on his bed with his cheeks on his fists, huffing loudly through his nose. His eyebrows are pulled down and together into a fierce glare. 

 

“I don’t want to talk to you,” he growls.

 

“Well, I want to talk to you. Can’t I talk to my favorite five-year-old?”

 

“I’m not your favorite! You like him better!”

 

Clint settles himself on the bed without being invited. He wants to wrap an arm around his son’s shoulders, but Nathaniel’s body language is definitely not agreeable to that right now. “Nathaniel, listen to me.”

 

Only Nathaniel’s eyebrows move. The glare intensifies. This kid is scary. No, don’t tell him that. Say something reassuring. Say something Laura would say.

 

“I love you very much, Nathaniel, and nothing can take that away. Me loving someone else doesn’t stop me from loving you.”

 

“Why does he have to be here? I want you to pay attention to me!”

 

“I’m paying attention to you too. Would you want to trade places with Thor? He lost everything.”

 

Nathaniel blinks. “Everything?”

 

“Yes, his mommy and his daddy and his home and all his friends. He’s scared and alone and he needs some people to love him. This is our chance to love him and help him not feel so alone. He really wants to be your friend, Nathaniel. The only thing he was worried about is if you would like him.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes, really. I love you all the time. I have enough love to share, and so do you. It’s like a cup that’s overflowing so much it flows out to other people. Thor’s cup is empty, but we can help fill it up.”

 

Nathaniel continues to stare at the far wall, cheeks on his fists, and digests this new information. Clint knows better than to interrupt his thought process, so he waits. Nathaniel almost always comes around if you give him enough time, although sometimes it’s a painfully slow procedure. Finally, after several agonizing minutes of tense silence, Nathaniel says reluctantly, “Ok, daddy. I can try to be his friend. But what about the bear? Do I have to give him the good one?”

 

“Well, the other one is ripped, isn’t it? You have lots of stuffed animals—“ Clint’s expansive gesture takes in the various plush bears, dogs, beetles, narwhals (Nathaniel has very eclectic tastes), and even anatomically correct disectable stuffed worm(s) strewn around the bedroom “—but Thor only has one, and he can’t sleep without it.”

 

Again with the painful silence, then finally an overly dramatic sniffle. “Ok, daddy, I’ll give it to him.”

 

“That’s my boy! Can I have a hug now?”

 

Finally _finally_ Nathaniel throws himself into Clint’s arms and gives him a tight squeeze around the neck. “I love you, daddy,” he whispers, “You’re my favorite daddy.”

 

“I’m your _only_ daddy.”

 

“I know. I guess I should tell Thor it’s ok to call you Uncle.”

 

Clint pulls back a little and narrows his eyes at the top of his son’s head. “. . . Oh?”

 

“I told him if he called you Uncle again, I’d tell you he punched me, then you’d send him back to that bad place where you found him,” Nathaniel says matter-of-factly. _Oh, you little shit_.

 

“That’s. . . not very nice.”

 

Nathaniel shrugs. “He didn’t cry.”

 

“Nathaniel. . .”

 

“Ok, I’ll tell him I’m sorry.”

 

“Good idea. Are you ready to tell him that now?”

 

Nathaniel sits up and glances out the window, where the rain is still coming down in sheets. “Yeah, I should probably do that before the barn floods and Ferdinand drowns, huh?”

 

“Probably.”

 

“But the rain does bring the worms out. Maybe I should wait a few more minutes so we can get some really good mud.”

 

“How about you do it now.”

 

“Ok, daddy.”

 

Back to the living room they go, with Nathaniel clinging tightly to Clint’s hand, where they find Laura sitting on the couch with a sniffling Thor on her lap. He’s hugging the bear, nose buried in its fur, but as soon as he sees Nathaniel, he slides down off Laura’s lap and regards him with big, observant eyes. The bear has both arms again, which means Laura must have sewed it back together.

 

Laura stands, catches Clint’s eye, and jerks her head toward the doorway to the kitchen. When he doesn’t move, she slides her hand into his and gently tugs him out of the room. “Let them figure it out,” she says in a undertone. Ok, fine, Clint can stay out of it, but he’s staying close enough to hear what they’re saying, and if Nathaniel starts trying to claim Thor punched him, he’s gonna regret it.

 

After a long minute of silence, Nathaniel says, “I’m sorry, Thor. I shouldn’t’ve told you Cooper murdered the last kid who touched his DS. He never killed anybody, but you never know. You could be the first. It’s best not to touch it.”

 

What? Just. . . what?

 

“And I’m sorry I said I would pinch you under the table if you sat by me at dinner. I won’t pinch you. Not very hard anyway.”

 

Wait a minute. . .

 

“And I’m sorry I pulled your hair. That part I pulled out will probably grow back.”

 

“Dat’s ok, Nafanyo, it didn’t hurt.”

 

Clint exchanges incredulous glances with Laura. How could all of this happen under their noses and they have no idea? And why didn’t Thor say anything? Of course, given Thor’s relationship with his brother, he probably didn’t consider it anything out of the ordinary. In fact, it probably felt familiar, maybe even. . . comfortable. Geez.

 

“And I’m sorry I said you couldn’t call my daddy Uncle Clint. You can call him Uncle Clint.”

 

“Fank you, Nafanyo.”

 

“. . . Just don’t call him daddy.”

 

“I won’t.”

 

“Ok, good. Then I won’t have to beat you up.”

 

 _Oh, Nathaniel._ Laura shakes her head and goes back to her coffee, which she uses to wash down more than the recommended dose of Tylenol.

 

“Fank you, Nafanyo. I don’t want to beat you up eider. Which bear do you want?”

 

“Um. . . which one do you want?”

 

“I want the one dat Waura fixed. Dat one ‘mells wike Bucky.”

 

“That’s good. That one is all gross anyway. I’ll take the new one. Do you want to play trucks with me?”

 

“YEAH! I WIKE FUCKS!”

 

Silence from the living room, broken only by the sound of Laura choking on her coffee.

 

“Daddy?” comes Nathaniel’s voice. “Thor said a bad word.”

 

Clint steps back into the living room to find Nathaniel staring open-mouthed at Thor, who looks thoroughly confused. “He didn’t mean to, buddy. That’s just how he says ‘truck’.”

 

Nathaniel looks back and forth between Thor and Clint for a minute as if he’s not quite sure he believes that, then he shrugs and says, “Ok, let’s play with the fucks.”

 

“Nope, you can say it right.”

 

“But—“

 

“Whoops, arguing,” Laura chimes in from the entryway to the kitchen.

 

Nathaniel looks ready to argue the point further, but outside the sun has appeared and the sky has turned a beautiful blue and Thor is hopping up and down with excitement of having a _friend_ , so he finally relents. “Ok, trucks. Come on, Thor, they’re in here.” As they disappear around the corner toward his bedroom, Clint hears Nathaniel say, “Do you have to go potty?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then why are you hopping up and down like that?”

 

“I’m incited to have a widdoh brudder!”

 

“Little brother, huh? I bet you’re better than Cooper. He’s mean.”

 

Hoping they’ll be ok now, Clint heads back toward the kitchen to eat that plum. It’s gonna be so good, perfectly ripe and delicious. He picks it up from the counter, and Lila appears like a prepubescent ninja to pluck it out of his hand.

 

“Thanks, dad,” she says, taking a bite. She wipes away the juice dripping down her chin as she walks back out of the room. Hey! Oh, well, at least there are six more. Clint turns around to take another plum, only to discover that Cooper has scooped them up and is slinking out while stuffing them into his hoodie pocket. Dammit!

 

* * *

 

After lunch (wherein Thor eats an obscene number of cherries, and _only_ cherries), the boys disappear again. A few minutes later, Clint, who is still sitting at the table lamenting the fact that he didn’t get a plum, hears Thor’s high-pitched battle cry, followed by a similar shriek from Nathaniel. He’s about to jump up to find out what the heck they’re fighting about now, when they both come running through the kitchen brandishing light sabers. Thor is holding his over his head like a pint-sized Mjolnir, and Nathaniel is copying him, a rare grin creasing his face.

 

“Uncuh Cwint, dis is a wightsaber!” Thor cries, swinging the saber and narrowly missing knocking over a pitcher of milk. “It’s wike a sword, but it’s made of wight! But it won’t burn me!”

 

Laura catches the end of the saber. “Ok, boys, outside with those please,” she says mildly.

 

“Come on, Thor!” Nathaniel shouts from the doorway, “Let’s go outside!”

 

“Yeah! We can have a du-oh!”

 

“I don’t know how to duel.”

 

“I can teach you, Nafanyo!”

 

Clint watches them out the kitchen window while he washes the dishes and Laura dries, a familiar, comfortable rhythm. Thor is showing Nathaniel proper fighting stance.

 

“‘Tand wif your feet apart, wike dis, see? Keep your back ‘traight. Ok, now bend your elbows cwose.”

 

“Like this?”

 

“Yes, dat’s right. Now ‘wing the sword wike dis.”

 

“Like this?” Nathaniel swings the light saber in a slicing arc that nearly catches Thor in the neck. Thor jumps out of the way just in time, grinning like a fool. 

 

“Yeah, wike dat!”

 

Clint doesn’t like the glint in Nathaniel’s eye. “Can you show me how to beat somebody much taller? Like almost as tall as dad?”

 

“Yeah, Heimdall taught me dat! You gotta use being ‘mall as an adbantage. You have a wower center of grabity and you’re fas’er. ‘Tay down wike dis.” He shows Nathaniel how to drop into a fighter’s crouch and aim for the knees of a taller opponent, and Nathaniel copies him with a look of calculated glee. Oh boy, Cooper won’t stand a chance.

 

Clint hands the last dish to Laura to dry. “I’m going to go pick some more plums,” he says.

 

“We got all the ones on the tree by the barn. You’ll have to go out past the field for more.”

 

“Even better. We can take the tractor.”

 

“Have fun,” Laura says, raising her cup of coffee, “I’ll just be here soaking in the silence.”

 

“Save some of that coffee for me.”

 

“I will. And Tylenol will be waiting for you when you get back. Don’t overdo it; you’re still recovering.”

 

“I’ll be fine. Hey boys!” Clint calls on his way out the door. “Who wants a tractor ride?”

 

“Me! Me!” Nathaniel immediately drops the lightsaber and comes running over. Thor hangs back, looking curious but cautious. 

 

“Factor? What’s a factor?”

 

“Come on, Thor, ride the tractor with me! It’s FUN!”

 

Clint scoops Nathaniel up under one arm then Thor under the other, and carries them both out to the barn while they giggle hysterically. He plunks one boy down on each knee on the tractor. Thor’s eyes go wide with awe.

 

“Dis is a factor?”

 

“Yep. Ready?”

 

Thor’s grinning so big his whole face is scrunched up and he’s wiggling from head to toe in excitement. “YES!”

 

“Here we go.” Clint turns the key and the tractor roars to life. Thor’s mouth drops open.

 

“Dat’s WOUD!”

 

“Is it too loud?” Clint shouts over the engine.

 

“No! I WIKE IT!!”

 

“ME TOO!” Nathaniel cries.

 

Clint wraps an arm around each of them so he can reach the controls and slowly backs out of the barn. The engine is not so deafening now that they are out of the enclosed space of the barn. As they bounce over the muddy ruts in the field, Clint says, “Here, Thor, put your hand on the steering wheel.” Eyes huge, Thor puts his small hand on the wheel and Clint covers it with his bigger one. “See, now you’re helping me drive.”

 

“I’M HELPING YOU DRIVE THE FACTOR!!”

 

“Yep.”

 

“NAFANYO, YOU HELP DRIVE THE FACTOR TOO!!”

 

Giggling, Nathaniel puts his hand on the wheel next to Clint’s.

 

“NOW WE ARE ALL DRIVING THE FACTOR!!”

 

“You’ll have to tell Uncle Tony you rode on the tractor.”

 

“UNCUH TONY KNOWS ABOUT THE FACTOR?”

 

“Yep, he helped fix it when it broke down.”

 

“WOW!! DIS IS FUN!!” Thor’s hair is bouncing up and down with each rut the tractor crosses, but judging by his face-splitting grin, Thor doesn’t mind. “I WIKE DESE BIG BUMPS!” he shouts in delight. 

 

When they get out to the far edge of the field where the rest of the plum trees are, Clint takes the buckets out of the back of the trailer: two small ones and one big one. “Here, boys, take these buckets. Nathaniel, why don’t you show Thor where the raspberries are while I pick some plums?”

 

“Ok, dad! Thor, let me show you the best kind of fruit.”

 

“Eben better dan cherries? Dose are bery yummy.”

 

“Oh, no, raspberries are better, I promise.”

 

“Ok, den, wet’s go!” 

 

Nathaniel starts picking his way toward the raspberries bushes, but his boots get stuck in the mud. Thor, who is just behind, grabs his hand. “I can help you, Nafanyo! Come dis way!”

 

D’aww. . . Clint digs out his phone and shoots some video of the two of them picking their way through the mud, Thor dancing around Nathaniel helping him pull his boots out of the mud, until Nathaniel finally says, “You know what would work better? If you gave me a piggy-back ride.”

 

“What’s dat?”

 

“Turn around and I’ll jump on your back. That will be easier.”

 

“Ok, Nafanyo!”

 

Clint is pretty sure he is raising a tiny Loki, which seems to suit Thor just fine.

 


	24. Chocowaty kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor has a new widdoh brudder. Just in time for Loki to show up for his cameo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, you guys, Loki is now Woki for me. That's what I call him in my head now. I blame Widdoh Four.

* * *

 

Clint has a whole bucketful of plums picked by the time Thor comes tromping back, laden down with both buckets and Nathaniel riding on his back like a knight on a steed. Clint is about to say something to Nathaniel about not taking unfair advantage of Thor’s goodwill, but they both have such expressions of pure joy on their sticky little faces that he decides to leave well enough alone.

 

Each bucket only has about a dozen raspberries in it. “Where did the rest of the raspberries go?” Clint asks, although the evidence is all over their faces, and hands, and shirt fronts, and even somehow down Thor’s neck and in his hair and the folds of his ears.

 

“There weren’t very many, dad,” Nathaniel lies, straight-faced. “It’s been too dry.”

 

“WE EATED THEM!” Thor crows, “DEY WERE YUMMY!”

 

Clint fixes Nathaniel with a _look_ , not as good as Laura’s obviously, because Nathaniel just gazes back innocently. “Care to revise your story?”

 

“Why would I do that?”

 

* * *

 

When they get back to the house, Laura takes one look at the two of them with their almost empty buckets and red-stained faces, and says, “Oh my goodness.” She has her hand over her mouth but Clint can see the twinkle of suppressed laughter in her eyes.  “So do you like raspberries?” she asks Thor.

 

His head eagerly bobs up and down. “Yes, dey are dewicioso! But I’m ‘ticky,”

 

“Yes, you are. Do you want to play in the sprinkler to rinse off?”

 

“Yeah!” Nathaniel shouts.

 

“What’s a ‘prinkuhwer?”

 

“Just a minute, I’ll show you.” Laura pulls out the hose and hooks up the sprinkler. Nathaniel is already sitting down in the mud pulling off his filthy boots, but Thor hangs back, watching. Clint takes the bucket of plums into the kitchen to wash. Maybe Laura will make a plum cobbler later. A guy can always hope, right?

 

Out the window he can see Nathaniel stripping off his shirt and tossing it in the general direction of the deck. “You gotta take your clothes off,” he urges. 

 

Now Thor’s face turns wary. He takes a step back just as Laura turns the faucet on, shooting water twenty feet into the air. Thor stumbles back and up the steps to the deck, where he clings to the post. Nathaniel, on the other hand, has left his clothes behind like a snake shedding its skin, and is sprinting through the water in his underwear, shrieking with glee as it hits him in the back.

 

“COME ON, THOR, PLAY WITH ME!!”

 

“I don’t fink dat’s safe,” Thor says, shaking his head. Clint is thinking he should go out there and help him feel more comfortable, when Laura crouches down beside him and slips her arm around his waist.

 

“The water comes from the hose, see?” she says, pointing. “And then it comes out those little holes. The faucet turns it off and on.”

 

“It’s not rain.”

 

“No, it’s not rain. Do you want to touch the water? I can turn it down.”

 

Thor chews his lip. “Yes, Wady Waura, I will touch it if you go wif me.”

 

“Ok, honey, we can touch it together. Here, you can help me turn the water down.” She takes him over to the faucet and shows him how to crank the handle to the right to decrease the force. Then she leads him out to put his hand in the spray. “See? It feels nice, right?”

 

“Yeah, Thor, it’s nice. Come on and play with me! I’ll hold your hand.”

 

“Ok, I will fy it.”

 

“Great! Do you want to take your shirt off?”

 

“Yes, pwease.” Instead of taking his shirt off, he raises his arms, obviously expecting Laura to take it off for him, so she takes hold of the hem and whips it off over his head. Then Nathaniel grabs his hand and pulls him into the spray. Thor blinks and gasps as it hits him in the face, but as soon as he’s all wet, he joins in enthusiastically, following Nathaniel in jumping over the sprinkler and chasing the leading edge of the water drops.

 

Clint picks out the best two plums, and suddenly Lila materializes and takes them out of his hand. “Hey!”

 

“Thanks, daddy,” she says sweetly, without even looking up from her book, and then she’s gone again. With a grunt, Clint picks out two more and goes back out to sit next to Laura on the porch steps. “Looks like fun,” he says, handing her a plum.

 

“Yep.”

 

“Looks like a mess.”

 

“Eh, I don’t care,” Laura says, “kids are supposed to play in the mud. It’s good for them.”

 

“Thor hasn’t had a chance to do much of that. He’s pretty much been trapped in the tower all the time. The one time I tried to take him out turned into a disaster. This place is good for him.”

 

“What are you thinking about the future?”

 

“I don’t know. We’ll go back tomorrow to check in, but I can bring him again. What do you think?”

 

“I think he fits right in here.”

 

They hear a wail coming from the direction of the sprinkler and look up to see Nathaniel sitting in the mud holding his knee. Clint knows better than to come running when Nathaniel hurts himself because that just kicks the drama up to 1000, so he and Laura sit tight. Thor crouches down to inspect the injured knee.

 

“Don’t cry, Nafanyo. It’s not so bad.”

 

“It HUUUUURTS!!”

 

Next thing Clint knows, Thor leans over and gives the knee a kiss. “Dere, dat will make it feel better.”

 

Nathaniel sniffles. “Thank you, Thor,” he says bravely.

 

“I can help you walk.”

 

More dramatic sniffles. Nathaniel is eating this up with a spoon. “Yes, please.” He slings an arm around Thor’s neck and limps back toward the house, leaning most of his weight on Thor’s willing shoulder.

 

“I guess if you’re wounded you don’t feel like taking Hamlet for a ride in the wagon,” Laura intones dryly.

 

Nathaniel suddenly makes a miraculous recovery.

 

* * *

 

 

After a visit to “Hamwet the pigwet", and a bath with “REAL BAF TOYS!”, it’s time for dinner: pork chops (yum) and Brussels sprouts (yuck, but Clint has to eat them anyway to “set a good example” blah blah blah). There is much chair re-arranging so Thor can sit next to Nathaniel, practically in each other’s laps. Laura cuts the boys' pick chops into bite-sized pieces and puts a fork into Thor's hand, then sits back to watch what happens. Clint is sure Thor is going to turn down the brussel sprouts, but he inhales them, even using his fork to spear two at a time and stuff them into his mouth, which is so full he can’t close his lips.

 

“Close your mouth to chew, please, Thor,” Laura says.

 

“I can’t. Dese are ‘ummy!” Thor says with his mouth still full. To Clint’s surprise, Laura doesn’t say anything more. In fact, both she and Lila are making that stupid melty-heart face again. Good grief.

 

After Thor has stuffed in his last Brussels sprout, suddenly more appear on his plate, and Nathaniel’s are just as suddenly all gone, which is suspicious because Nathaniel hates Brussel sprouts as much as Clint does. Thor doesn’t question it, just gobbles them down.

 

Lila pushes the pieces of her pork chop around her plate without eating much. When Clint questions her about it, she says, “Dad, it’s _pork_.”

 

“So? It tastes good.”

 

“I know, but. . .” her voice drops to a whisper, “ _Hamlet_.”

 

“This isn’t Hamlet.”

 

“I know, but pigs are so cute! I just can’t eat it.”

 

Thor pauses with his fork, containing a hard-won bite of pork, half-way to his mouth. “DIS IS A PIG? DIS IS _HAMWET_?!”

 

“Um. . .” Lila says.

 

“No, buddy,” Clint assures him, “Hamlet is fine. This is. . . um. . . pork.”

 

“IS IT A PIG?”

 

“Well, yes, but. . . it’s not one we know.”

 

“Oh.” Thor looks down at his plate with his eyebrows pulled together in consternation.

 

Nathaniel, who has already eaten all of his pork, says, “I’ll help you with that, Thor.” He leans over, spears several of Thor’s pieces of pork, and transfers them to his plate. “There, now you don’t have to eat it.”

 

“Fank you, Nafanyo,” Thor says brightly. Poor kid doesn’t even realize he was robbed. Nathaniel primly puts a bite of pork in his mouth and chews, looking around the table innocently. 

 

When they are done eating, Thor climbs down from his seat and picks up his plate. Nathaniel sets his plate on top of Thor’s, then his silverware, and finally his crumpled napkin. “Fank you, Nafanyo. I can take your cup too.”

 

“Ok.” Nathaniel sets his cup on top of the teetering pile. Laura bites her lip but doesn’t say anything as Thor carries it carefully to the counter next to the sink.

 

“I cweared my pwate,” he says happily, “Can I have ‘zert now?”

 

“You can after you help me make it.”

 

“Then I’ll eat some too!” Nathaniel exclaims. Laura fixes him with a look, so he amends it to, “I mean, I’ll help you make it too!”

 

Clint stays out of the kitchen while Laura and her little “helpers” are making dessert, which is either Laura's famous chocolate truffle cake, or a recreation of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, judging by the amount of batter that ends up spattered all over the walls. Lila and Cooper do their best, bless them, but they are no match for a couple of preschoolers jonesing for sugar. Thor turns out to be an especially enthusiastic stirrer, and taste-tester as well, despite Lila’s far-too-gentle “No, no, Thor, don’t eat the batter. It’s got raw egg in it.”

 

“IT’S YUMMY!” is his response as he slobbers all over the spatula then sticks it back in the batter before she can grab his hand.

 

“Don’t you do that, young man,” Laura warns Nathaniel, who is watching Thor lick chocolate off his chin. “No one wants your germs.”

 

‘Of course not, mom,” Nathaniel promises. “I know better.”

 

“Hmm,” Laura says, narrowing her eyes at the smear of chocolate across his cheek. “Where did that come from then?”

 

Nathaniel is the very picture of wounded innocence. “What? I didn’t eat any, I swear!”

 

Clint decides he doesn’t really want any cake after all. While he’s busy feeling sorry for himself, his phone buzzes, and when he looks down at it, the screen says,

 

**Bucky Barnes would like to video chat**

 

REALLY?? Well, ok then! This should be _very_ interesting. Will Bucky talk? Or will he sit and silently glare at them? Who can tell these days?

 

Clint thumbs the “accept” button. The first thing that appears on the screen is Sam’s face, very close-up. He’s apparently caught mid-sentence as he says, “—gotta push this button here. Ok, there we go.” Sam pulls back to reveal the common room, with Bucky sitting on the couch behind him. “Hey, Clint, Bucky wanted to talk to you.” The image on the screen jerks and moves as Sam hands the Starkpad to Bucky.

 

“I never said—“ Bucky starts, but Thor, whose head popped up the second he heard Sam’s voice, comes zooming over, pursued by Lila who is trying to catch the spatula before he flings chocolate all over the living room. Goliath lopes after them just in case his services are needed.

 

“UNCUH BUCKY!!” Thor shouts. “UNCUH BUCKY, WE’RE MAKING CHOCOWATE FUFFOH CAKE!! It's gonna have FRO’TING on it!!””

 

“Hiya, squirt. Yeah, I can see that.”

 

“WAURA, CAN WE BRING SOME FUFFOH CAKE TO BUCKY??”

 

“Sure you can.”

 

“Uncuh Bucky, I pwayed in the ‘prinkuhwer!”

 

“Uh. . .” Bucky raises his eyebrows at Clint, silently waiting for him to translate, so he mouths, ‘sprinkler.’ “Ah, sprinkler. Sounds like fun.”

 

“Hi, Thor,” comes Bruce’s voice from the background. Thor leans in with his chocolate-covered face inches from the screen, trying to see Bruce, so Bucky moves the Starkpad, first the wrong way, and then the right way to show the kitchen, where Bruce is stirring something in a pot, with Tony standing beside him tossing in vegetables. Wanda and Vision are also in the kitchen, chopping herbs together. Nat is standing at the fridge with the door open like she’s looking for a pre-dinner snack, which would be typical.

 

“Hi Uncuh Bruce. Uncuh Tony, I got to ride the factor!”

 

“The tractor? Is it running smoothly?”

 

“No, it was bumpy!”

 

“Hmm. Clint didn’t grind the gears, did he?”

 

“I don’t know what dat means!”

 

“I know how to drive the tractor, Tony,” Clint interrupts. “It was only bumpy because the ground—“

 

“Not judging by the wear patterns on that gearbox you don’t. Did you oil the crankcase?”

 

“Well. . .”

 

“That’s what I thought. You’re going to lose custody of that machine if you don’t treat it properly. Tell it sorry and feed it a quart of oil, please.”

 

“Fine, whatever.” 

 

Clint can tell Tony is aching to say more, probably give Clint shit for allowing the cultivator to get rusty, but Nat leans in front of him and says, “Is that Cooper and Lila behind you?”

 

“Hi Auntie Nat!” Lila calls enthusiastically. 

 

“Hey, Aunt Nat.” Cooper releases one of Nathaniel’s arms so he can wave, and gets rewarded by being spattered with chocolate as Nathaniel tries to wave as well with a wooden spoon in his hand.

 

“Cooper, I think your voice changed! And are you taller than your dad now?”

 

Cooper nods from behind his hair. Clint is about to object, but the part of Cooper’s face that’s visible is such a delightful mix of mortification and joy that Clint decides just to savor the moment. It’s not often he gets to see Cooper blush these days. 

 

“Hi Laura, how are my tomatoes doing?” Nat asks.

 

“They’re growing great,” Laura replies, brushing aside her hair with the back of her hand. She has an adorable streak of chocolate across her cheek. Clint supposes she wouldn’t take kindly to him licking it off. “The plants are loaded down with ripe tomatoes. We had some for dinner tonight.”

 

“Bucky, you have to see this,” Clint says, getting up from the couch and carrying the StarkPad over to the fridge. “Thor, come here.” Thor obediently trots over as Clint opens the produce drawer from the fridge. Clint picks him up and sits him on the counter. “Thor, what are these,” Clint asks, holding up a handful of fresh produce.

 

“Dose are betchabos! Carrots, ‘nap peas, and ‘matoes! Dat’s wike Mater! Can I eat dem?”

 

Bucky makes a little noise of surprise. Clint can see on the screen that the rest of the team has gathered behind him and is watching expectantly.

 

“Sure, pal. Um. . .” Clint looks down at Thor’s sticky hands. “Open your mouth.”

 

“Ok! I want a ‘nap pea!” Thor opens his mouth like a baby bird and Clint drops in a snap pea, which Thor chomps on noisily while the team cheers.

 

“That’s great, pal,” Steve exclaims, clapping Bucky on the shoulder like he had something to do with it. “Good work, Clint.”

 

“Not me,” Clint clarifies quickly, “Laura introduced them to him.”

 

“You guys are coming back tomorrow, right?” Sam asks.

 

“What do you think, Thor?” Clint asks, ruffling Thor’s hair, “Do you want to go back to the tower?”

 

“I wike it here, but I miss my ‘cooter—ssss-cooter. And I miss Uncuh Bucky and Auntie Nat and Uncuh ‘Teve and Uncuh Sam and Auntie Wanda. She can do MAGIC!  And Uncuh Bruce makes yummy ‘paketti!” And Uncuh Sam said he’d take me for a ride on his wings!

 

“He did, huh?” Clint doesn’t remember being consulted on the wing-ride thing. Is Thor even big enough to fit in the front pack without slipping out? Eh, Sam will figure it out. Sam’s used to ‘parenting’ the enormous toddlers on the team. “Ok, we’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. Sam, maybe you guys can do your thing while I take a shower and a nap.”

 

“I thought you were supposed to be resting,” Steve chides.

 

“With four kids in the house? Not much chance of that.”

 

“Sure, I’ll take my little buddy for a while,” Sam assures him. “We have fun together, don’t we Thor?”

 

“YES!”

 

“See you tomorrow, squirt,” Bucky says.

 

“Goodbye, Uncuh Bucky! I wuv you!!” Thor cries. He leans in and give the screen a big chocolately smooch. Ugh, yuck. Clint pulls back the Starkpad, intending to wipe off the mess before it ruins the screen but HOLY SHIT THERE’S THE MELTY-HEART FACE FROM BUCKY!! Quick, screenshot before it’s gone! Clint fumbles the pad and manages to click the button just before the screen goes black. Got it! Awesome! Gotta text that to Nat now so she can start giving Bucky shit right away for being as big a sap as the rest of them.

 

Thor hops down off the counter and runs back over to “help” scrape the batter into the pan. As Clint is preparing to send the picture to the entire team, and possibly post to Twitter as well, and hell, why not Instagram too, he looks up and sees Laura with her hand over her mouth and tears in her eyes.

 

“You ok?”

 

“Clint, Thor already _has_ a family,” she says quietly, “all of you guys.”

 

* * *

 

Nathaniel decides Thor is going to sleep in his bed, which sounds like just a swell idea. Two little boys hopped up on sugar, sleeping in the same bed. . . what could possibly go wrong?

 

Clint tucks them in, side by side in Nathaniel’s twin-size bed (Is it still called “tucking them in” if they already have the covers pulled up to their chins?) “Do you want the hall light on?”

 

“No,” says Nathaniel.

 

“Yes,” says Thor.

 

“How about just the bathroom light? And I’ll leave the door open a little. Is that all right?”

 

Clint expects Nathaniel will object, but he just says sweetly, “Ok, daddy, if Thor wants the light on, that’s fine.”

 

“Great. Goodnight, boys, sleep tight.” He leans down, expecting Nathaniel will give him a hug, but instead Nathaniel just tilts his head to the side to present his cheek for a kiss. Hmm. . . Clint puts his hand on Nathaniel’s arm and encounters something that crinkles. Uh-huh, just as he thought. He pulls back the blanket and extracts a package of Oreos.

 

“Something you want to tell me?”

 

“Do you want to take the—?” Thor starts, but Nathaniel shushes him.

 

“Take what?”

 

“Nothing, daddy. I love you,” Nathaniel says, wrapping his arms around Clint’s neck and kissing him wetly on the cheek. Clint is sure he’s got more contraband under those covers, but he’s willing to let it slide if it will keep them quiet. Just not Oreos please, since they finally managed to get Thor’s teeth brushed.

 

“I love you too, buddy.”

 

Next is Thor, who follows Nathaniel’s lead in hugging Clint around the neck and planting a smooch on his cheek. “I wuv you too, Uncuh Cwint! Fank you for bringing me here and wetting me meet your famiwy and ride on the factor and pick raspberries and pway in the ‘prinkuwer and eat chips in bed!”

 

Nathaniel gives a guilty start. Clint holds out his hand. After a second, Nathaniel reluctantly pulls a bag of chips from under the covers and puts it in Clint’s hand.

 

“Thank you. Goodnight, boys.”

 

Clint is careful to leave the door open a crack, and remembers to turn on the bathroom light on the way to his bedroom. As he reaches his door, he can hear excited little voices, first Nathaniel’s whisper, which is too quiet to make out, then Thor’s attempt at a whisper in response, “I NEBER HAD ‘KITTOHS BEFORE. DEY TAS’ GOOD!”

 

So apparently Clint didn’t get all the contraband after all. Will Skittles rot their teeth before morning? Eh, probably not.

 

* * *

 

Clint gets a night alone with his wife. ‘Nuff said.

 

* * *

 

Clint wakes up alone in the bed. It’s not even light yet; where did Laura go? And what woke him up? Not a thunderstorm like usual. He lays still and listens, and after a second he hears high-pitched giggling floating down the hall from the direction of the kitchen. What are those boys up to now?

 

He gets up, takes a step toward the door, and almost trips over his suitcase, which is open and the contents are strewn all over the floor. Confused, he shoves it all back into the suitcase as best he can without turning the light on. When he gets to the door, he can smell coffee and hear the murmur of Laura’s voice, so at least they probably aren’t destroying the kitchen, thank god.

 

At the entrance to the kitchen, he stops, bleary-eyed, and just takes a second to enjoy the scene: Thor and Nathaniel both sitting cross-legged on the counter, heads together, blond hair against dark, exclaiming over a book together, while Laura stands zombie-like in front of the toaster oven with her hair a mess and her pajama shirt misbuttoned. Goliath waits patiently next to her knee, hoping in her stupor she will drop some crumbs into his waiting mouth. Clint catches a familiar scent mixed in with the smell of coffee—Pop-tarts, of course. 

 

Sorry, Laura, you lose too. It’s probably not right how much schadenfreude Clint is feeling right now.

 

* * *

 

There are buckets of tears when it’s time to say goodbye, mostly crocodile tears from Nathaniel, but some from Lila, and a few from Thor as well.

 

“I don’t want to make Nafanyo sad. Maybe we should ‘tay here wonger.”

 

“We’re already packed up and ready to go. We can stay longer next time, ok?”

 

“Ok. Nafanyo, we can ‘tay wonger nex’ time! And I can bring more top-parps! And we can pway in the mud, and pick wots of raspberries, and sweep in the same bed, and eat ‘kittohs and wook at books under the cubbers all night—“

 

“Excuse me? You did what?”

 

“He’s lying, mom. We didn’t—“

 

“WOOK AT BOOKS ALL NIGHT! IT WAS FUN, RIGHT NAFANYO?”

 

“Right. Sorry, mom.”

 

Sorry you got caught, you mean? But Clint can’t stay mad at Nathaniel for long, because he pulls a little truck from behind his back and presents it to Thor.

 

“Here, Thor, this is for you.”

 

Thor takes the truck and turns it over in his hands, an awestruck expression on his face. “Dis is for me??”

 

“Yes, it’s a gift for you.”

 

“FANK YOU NAFANYO!” Thor grabs Nathaniel in a bear hug and lifts him off his feet. “YOU’RE MY BES’ FRIEND!”

 

Now, Clint happens to know that this particular truck is no favorite of Nathaniel’s; in fact, it was abandoned in a forgotten corner of his bedroom until a few minutes ago, but it’s the thought that counts, and Thor definitely seems to appreciate it. And judging by the calculating glint in Nathaniel’s eye, he is angling for a way to make that appreciation work in his favor.

 

Clint hugs them all goodbye, even Cooper. While Thor scratches Goliath behind the ears and gets a slobbery lick in return, Laura puts a box in Clint's hands filled with containers packed in ice: blueberries for Tony, strawberries and plums “to share” (Nope, Clint’s gonna eat those all himself), baby tomatoes and carrots for Nat and Wanda, heirloom tomatoes that Clint hopes he can convince Bruce to turn into spaghetti sauce, half of a chocolate cake for Bucky, and a jar of precious homemade raspberry jam for Steve. If Laura hadn’t specifically said the jam was for Steve, it would have gone straight into Clint’s fridge. As it is, Laura will probably ask Steve how he liked it, so there’s sadly no way Clint can get away with hiding it.

 

* * *

 

As Clint is piloting the jet back toward New York, Thor, strapped into the back seat with his feet dangling, happily spews forth a constant stream of nonsense, shouted over the sound of the engines.

 

“NAFANYO GIVED ME DIS FUCK!”

 

“Yep.”

 

“I GET TO KEEP DIS FUCK!”

 

“Yes you do.”

 

“I WIKE DIS FUCK!”

 

“That’s good.”

 

“I WUV NAFANYO! HE IS MY NEW WIDDOH BRUDDER.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I CAN TEACH HIM HOW TO FIGHT!! WHEN WE GET BIGGER WE CAN FIGHT BATTOHS TOGEDER!!”

 

“Um. . . sure.” Yeah, how is Clint supposed to break it to Thor that there is no way he and Nathaniel will grow up at the same time? Either Tony and Co will figure this out quickly, in which case Thor will be back to grown up before Nathaniel is out of primary school, or they won’t figure it out, in which case Nathaniel will be old and gray before Thor hits puberty.

 

Silence from the backseat. It stretches out so long that Clint turns around to check if Thor is still awake, and finds him staring out the window with a troubled expression. “Thor? Everthing ok?”

 

Thor turns that troubled expression on Clint. “Do you fink Woki will be mad dat I got a new widdoh brudder?”

 

“Oh. Um. No, I don’t think he’ll be mad. I think. . . um. . . he would want you to be happy.” This is a lie. What Clint actually thinks is that Loki doesn’t care one bit what Thor does or how he feels, because Loki is a sociopath who only cares about himself, and who treats other people as either useful objects or obstacles*. But there’s no way he’s going to tell that to Thor, because it would break his innocent little heart.

 

“Ok, Cwint. I want Woki to be happy too. Do you fink Woki is happy all grown up wifout me?”

 

“I think Loki is as happy as he possibly can be.”

 

“Dat’s good. I want Nafanyo to be happy too. Can we go back and bisit again soon? Dat will make Nafanyo happy.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Nafanyo gived me a fuck. He is my new widdoh brudder!”

 

Aaaand they’re stuck in a loop. Great. Clint listens with half an ear while he plans his free afternoon. First a long shower, of course. Then a nap. Maybe a snack. . . He’s planning out what junk food he’s going to eat to make up for two whole days of healthy food (it’s all about that balance, you know) when he realizes the running monologue has trailed off again. This time when he looks back, he sees Thor’s head lolled to the side, eyes closed. A line of drool hangs from his chin. SHIT he’s taking a nap!!

 

“Thor! Thor, wake up!”

 

Thor’s eyes open halfway. “Huh?”

 

“Hey, stay awake, buddy! We’re almost home.” (another lie—New York is over an hour away still) “You gotta stay awake so you can go flying with Sam.”

 

“Ok. . .” His eyes slide shut again and his head dips forward.

 

“Come on, Thor, wake up. Um. . . Hey, Thor, I see Dora’s house!”

 

Thor’s eyes pop open again. “Huh? Where?!”

 

“Right down there!” Clint points out the left window. Thor sits up and cranes his neck trying to see out the window, which of course shows only clouds.

 

“I don’t see it!”

 

“Oh, sorry, you just missed it.”

 

“Oh,” Thor says, disappointed, as he settles back into his seat. His eyes start to droop again, so Clint quickly comes up with another one.

 

“Look! There’s Caillou’s house!”

 

That does the trick. “Where?!”

 

By the time they get back to New York airspace, Clint has “seen” Pride Rock, Radiator Springs, Princess Jasmine’s palace, Spongebob’s pineapple house in Bikini Bottom, Santa Claus’ sleigh (“Who’s dat??” “Never mind.”), and a whole mess of flying fish. Thor’s neck must be sore from how hard he’s stretching it trying to see out the window. He never questions how it happens that he keeps just barely missing everything.

 

* * *

 

At the tower, Clint hands Thor, who is practically jumping up and down with excitement at all the cool stuff he almost saw, off to Sam, dumps the gifts onto Nat to distribute, and drags their luggage down to his quarters in blissful silence. His bed is calling. _What’s that, pillow? You want me to rest my head in your lap? Oh, you minx._

 

He’s freshly showered and pajama’d, and he’s just settled down under the covers when Friday rudely interrupts his rest.

 

“Clint, Steve would like me to let you know that Loki is here.”

 

SHIIIIIIIT!!!

* * *

* * *

 

 

*Keep in mind that this story is written entirely from Clint's perspective. He may not exactly be a reliable narrator when it comes to Loki. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dang this story is taking forever to write. Obviously I won't have it done before Infinity War comes out. I hope they don't kill off too many of the characters. I'm still slowly writing here and I do plan to finish this story, no matter how AU it gets. I'm bummed I don't have more time to write, because I've got another awesome story all outlined but I haven't even had a chance to start writing it yet, and after Infinity War, it probably won't be relevant anymore.


	25. FWYING WIF UNCUH SAM!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki has a cameo. Readers are not allowed to physically harm the author. 
> 
> Tony gets a clue. Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminders:
> 
> 1) I had this chapter drafted long before the release of Infinity War. Not to get all spoilery, but in my timeline, Loki took off with the Tessaract and left Thor and Bruce to deal with Thanos on their own. 
> 
> 2) This story is written entirely from Clint's perspective, and as we know, Clint and Loki have a rather unpleasant history. My head-canon is that Clint hates Loki's guts, as I think I've already made clear in this story. So if I've made Loki look bad, blame Clint, not me. :-) Feel free to comment that you think I've got Loki wrong.
> 
> 3) This chapter is short--my apologies. I wanted to get it up sooner rather than later so I can get on to the next part of the story.

* * *

 

 

By the time Clint gets to the landing pad, bow clutched tightly in his left hand, his jaw is sore from grinding his teeth. Loki is standing there casual as you please, facing off against Steve, who looks as tense as Clint feels. Wanda, Tony, and Nat are flanking him. Steve has his hand wrapped around Wanda’s wrist. Her fingers are crackling with her red magic shit. Clint understands the feeling.

 

Loki’s dressed in a black business suit with a green tie instead of his usual ridiculous get up. His only acknowledgement of Clint’s arrival is a slight lifting of the corner of his lip. Clint feels his hand twitch toward his quiver. God, how he wants to wipe that sneer off Loki’s arrogant face.

 

“What are you doing here?” Steve asks calmly, but there’s steel behind it. Not that Loki gives a shit.

 

“I heard you have something of mine.”

 

“Thor doesn’t belong to you,” Clint spits. Steve holds up a hand to quiet him, goddammit. Clint doesn’t want to be quiet. He wants to scream. Steve’s lucky he hasn’t pushed Loki off the roof already. The only thing holding him back is knowing it probably won’t kill the bastard.

 

“He is my brother,” Loki says mildly. The fact that he is so unruffled by Clint’s anger only angers Clint more. “As his only living relative, I have the right to take custody of him.”

 

“Go to hell,” Clint growls. “You just want to hurt him, like you have so many times before.”

 

“We’re not going to let you just take him,” Steve says. He’s still got his hand up, like it’s going to shut Clint up. “He’s staying here with us where he’s safe.”

 

Is that a flicker of something, some emotion in Loki’s eyes? Nah, Clint must be imagining it. “Very well. Just let me see him.” There is a pause, then Loki adds, “Please.”

 

Well, now Clint knows Loki is playing some sort of game, because the bastard does not say please. “Don’t trust him,” Clint says quietly to Steve, even though he knows Loki can still hear him. “He tried to destroy New York and enslave the entire world.”

 

“I only want to see him. I won’t hurt him and I won’t try to take him. You have my word.”

 

“Steve. . .” Clint hisses through his teeth.

 

“I might consider letting you see him,” Steve says, as if Clint wasn’t even there, “If you let Wanda read your mind first.” _Shit, Steve, why did you call me up here if you weren’t gonna even listen to me??_

 

“I don’t have to submit to that,” Loki objects immediately. See? He’s got a hidden agenda. Loki’s _always_ got a hidden agenda.

 

“I don’t actually need permission,” Wanda says, stepping out from behind Steve’s shoulder. Steve still has ahold of her wrist, but Clint can tell it’s only because she is allowing it. His grip is loose; she could easily pull away if she wanted to. Hell, she could easily pull away even if his grip was tight. Everyone treats Wanda like a kid, when they should be treating her like she’s carrying a nuclear bomb.

 

Wanda lifts her other hand and casts a hex at Loki. He must see it coming, but he doesn’t try to avoid it. He just stands there with a long-suffering expression on his face and lets her do it. After less than a minute, Wanda drops her hand and cocks her head at him curiously, and Loki’s green eyes just stare back. This silent scrutiny lasts longer than the hex did. So, care to share with the class, Wanda?

 

Finally Steve says, “Wanda?”

 

“He means him no harm,” Wanda says slowly, still locked into eye contact with Loki. Is she SURE about that? Her face isn’t saying she’s sure about that.

 

“Thank you. Am I allowed to see my brother now?” He’s so fucking smug. Clint’s fists are clenched so hard he’s can feel his fingernails digging into his palms. Just one arrow to the face. That’s all he wants. Maybe knock a few of those perfect teeth loose.

 

“I’ll let you see him,” Steve agrees, because Steve has no fucking sense, “but you have to stay where Thor can’t see you, and you definitely can’t tell him who you are. Right now he thinks his whole family is dead. I’m not prepared to tell him the truth is actually worse.”

 

“Delightful. It’s encouraging to know you think of me so highly.”

 

Just one arrow. Just one. Wouldn’t kill him, just cause excruciating pain. Then they can push him off the roof. But noooo, Steve is leading the way toward the gym. He’s gonna let Loki into the tower, into their home. Steve is a moron. Tony and Nat looks like they’re thinking the same, but they say nothing. Everybody’s just gonna go along with this. Well, fine. They can mop up Thor’s tears when he finds out the “foof” a second time. 

 

Clint waits until the group gets ahead of him before he takes up the rear, because there’s no way in hell he’s turning his back on Loki the Snake. Besides, that makes it easier to shoot Loki in the back if he tries anything funny. Nat seems to have the same idea, because she falls into step with Clint, tense and silent. It makes for one awkward elevator ride, during which Loki stands with his hands locked behind his back and that stupid little smirk on his face the entire way down. Steve’s back is so stiff you could’ve bounced a quarter off it. Clint keeps himself calm by studying the numbers on the buttons as the elevator works its way downward, only to jerk to a stop one floor above the gym, so Steve is taking them to the balcony overlook, not the gym floor itself.

 

When the elevator doors open, hey look, it’s Bruce standing there waiting for them. This is the first time Clint’s been disappointed to see Bruce as himself and not the Hulk. Of course, the Hulk probably wouldn’t have fit in the hallway anyway.

 

“Hello, Loki,” Bruce says pleasantly enough, but his grin is a little too feral, a little too toothy. Loki’s responding smile is tinged with just a hint of trepidation.

 

“Banner.”

 

Bruce falls into step with them as Steve leads the way to the balcony, where he turns and faces Loki, hands tightly clasped behind his back. “No further. Stay in the shadows.”

 

“You know I’m not actually obligated to obey you. I’ll do what I want.”

 

“What do you want, Loki?” Bruce asks, like he’s inquiring about the weather.

 

There is a slight hesitation before Loki responds, just as casually, “I have only my brother’s best interests at heart.”

 

“Coulda fooled me,” Clint mutters. 

 

“What you think of me matters little, Barton,” Loki says with a shrug of dismissal. He takes a step toward the balcony, but stops when Bruce steps in front of him. Clint can hear Bucky’s voice then Sam’s, not well enough to make out what they’re saying, and then Thor’s higher-pitch shout of glee in response. A second later, they come into view, Sam soaring through the air with a squirming little Thor attached to his chest. They’ve got the harness cinched down so tightly that only Thor’s eyes are visible above the top of the frontpack. His short arms and legs only stick out halfway from the openings at the side and bottom.

 

As they buzz past the viewing window, Thor spots Clint and stars waving his stubby arms like he’s trying to flag down a plane. “CWINT!!” he screeches, “CWINT WOOK AT ME! I’M FWYING WIF SAM!! DIS IS _AWESOME_!!”

 

Clint glances around to make sure that Loki is staying away from the railing, and discovers that he has taken a step back further into the shadows. The look on his face. . . well, Clint doesn’t know how to describe it. Wistful, maybe? But only for a second. As soon as he catches Clint’s eye, his mouth hardens into contempt. Next thing Clint knows, he has turned on his heel and is striding toward the door.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“Hm,” Loki sniffs, “I’ve seen enough. I wouldn’t want him anyway. Who would want to be saddled with an overactive child for centuries?”

 

That gets Clint’s hackles up. There’s no way he’s going to let Loki take Thor anyway, but for him to say he doesn’t even _want_ him. . . “Maybe because he’s your _brother who loves you more than life itself,”_ Clint snaps, trying to block Loki’s path.

 

Loki’s lip curls in obvious dismissal. “I have no responsibility for him.”

 

“Oh?” Wanda says, stepping up in front of him. The top of her head doesn’t even reach his chin. She has to practically stand on tiptoe to look him in the eye, but that doesn’t stop her. “Then why do you feel guilty?”

 

Loki blinks. “You must be mistaken,” he says casually. Guilty, definitely. But why? Unless. . . Oh no. Fuck no. Clint is gonna _kill_ him.

 

Clint has to tilt his head back to look Loki in the eye too. “You set him up,” he says through clenched teeth.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“You set him up! You told them how to trap him, how to separate him from us, what would knock him out. You did this to him!”

 

Loki fucking blinks again, but doesn’t say anything. Clint knows he’s right. Next to him, Wanda takes a step forward, jaw set and fingertips glowing red and crackling. Loki takes a half-step back. Clint can feel the rest of the team gathering behind him in silent shock.

 

“I never intended. . .”

 

Steve and Nat move to block his exit. Loki’s eyes dart around the group nervously. “They were only meant to take his blood. They gave me their word they wouldn’t hurt him. By the time I found out—“

 

“You just took their word for it?” Clint cuts in sharply. “The god of lies, and it never occurred to you they were _lying_ to you? Do you even know what they did to him??”

 

Loki has the gall to correct him. “I’m not the god of lies, I’m the god of mischief.”

 

“You and I both know what you did to me goes way beyond mischief.”

 

“Oh, are we talking about you? I thought we were talking about Thor.”

 

Clint can’t breathe, can’t think straight, can’t even see straight. How dare Loki treat this lightly? How dare he treat their pain like a joke? “He has screaming nightmares every night,” Clint snarls.

 

“That’s nothing new,” Loki says casually. Now it’s Clint’s turn to blink. He’s trying to formulate a response when Loki’s uncaring mask slips and he gets a glimpse of what’s underneath—guilt. “Look, they already had a plan, but it would have killed him. I gave them a better plan.”

 

“ _This_ is a better plan??” Nat says incredulously.

 

“They were idiots. They weren’t meant to use the stone on him. They did it wrong.”

 

Tony, who has been standing stone-like next to Clint’s shoulder with his arms folded, suddenly perks up. “Wait, what do you mean, they did it wrong? Do you know how it works?”

 

“Of course I do.”

 

“Ooh, do tell,” Tony says, warming to the subject, “it’s lustrous and dense but a poor conductor. We found a slight reaction when we applied 30 see-sees of deionized water. Is that the key? Temperature of the water doesn’t seem to matter.” At least, that’s what Clint thinks he is saying—he’s pretty much completely lost at this point, but if Tony is excited about it, that’s good, right?

 

Loki rolls his eyes, like a parent whose toddler keeps asking how much longer when you _know_ they aren’t capable of understanding time concepts. “When you found the stone, was it mounted on an adamantium base and secured with vibranium?”

 

Tony and Bruce have some sort of silent conversation just with their eyebrows, by which Clint discerns this must be new information. Clint knows Steve’s shield is vibranium, but he has no idea what adamantium might be. Sounds made up.

 

“No, it was lying loose,” Nat puts in.

 

Now Loki’s lip curls. “They did it backwards.”

 

“Backwards how?” Tony demands. He suddenly has a StarkPad in his hand. Is he taking notes? Does he really think Loki’s going to give him anything that’s not a pack of lies?

 

“I don’t know anything else,” Loki says. He flicks his fingers and immediately Clint feels himself being pushed backwards, along with the rest of the team. He catches himself on the railing just as Loki strides out of sight, so fast that Wanda doesn’t even have a chance to use her magic shit on him. Steve takes off after him, with Clint and Nat on his heels, but he’s just fucking _gone_. SHIT!

 

Bruce and Tony wander off with their heads together over the StarkPad, mumbling science mumbo-jumbo that Clint has no idea about. Wanda, who seriously looks like she’s about to lose it, stalks away, leaving a trail of red sparks behind her. Nat heads wordlessly down the stairs to the gym, where Clint can still hear little Thor’s happy shrieks. By the time Clint gathers his thoughts and feels like he can move again, the only one left is Steve, who is standing in the entrance to the observation room with his hands balled into fists. At first Clint thinks he’s upset about Loki, but then he notices the crease between his eyebrows. His eyes don’t look angry—the sads are back.

 

“Clint?”

 

“Um. . . yeah?”

 

“What did they do to him?”

 

“What?”

 

“You asked Loki if he knew what they did to Thor. What was it?”

 

Fuck. Clint swallows hard. He can’t tell Steve the truth because then Steve would know what happened to Bucky, and Bucky doesn’t want him to know, because. . . reasons. Maybe they’re shitty reasons, but Bucky confided in him and trusted him not to tell, and Bucky doesn’t trust _anyone_. There’s no fucking way Clint is going to violate that trust.

 

“I—I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.”

 

“They did it to Bucky too, didn’t they?” Steve’s strained voice is breaking Clint’s heart, and the worst part is knowing it _doesn’t have to be this way_ , if only these two would open their mouths and actually _talk_ to each other.

 

“You want to know what happened to Bucky?”

 

“Yes!”

 

“Then _ask him_.”

 

“He—he won’t tell me.”

 

“Have you asked him?”

 

“No, but—“

 

“Just ask him, for god’s sake!”

 

Steve’s breathing is loud and his eyes are wet. He’s chewing the inside of his cheek—Clint can see the muscle in his jaw jumping—but he doesn’t say anything more. Clint doesn’t know what else he can say, what else he can do to convince either of them to act like grown-ups. Clint can’t fix this. They have to fix it themselves.

 

From the gym, he hears the sounds of Sam, Nat, and Bucky talking, then Thor’s voice, “DAT WAS FUN, UNCUH SAM! CAN WE DO DAT AGAIN WAYTER?” So they’re done and Clint’s got an actual kid to take care of. He doesn’t have time to act as a go-between for two emotionally-stunted hundred-year-old supersoldiers. As he’s leaving, he catches Steve swiping at his face with the heel of his hand. He doesn’t turn around.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm sorry. I don't hate Loki; Clint does.


	26. Ibe dot a tode id by doze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out Thor brought home a little souvenir from his visit to the farm. Tony and Bruce do some science.

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Text from Tony_

_Got any adamantium?_

 

**I have no idea what the hell that is**

 

_World’s strongest metal. Well, except for vibranium, which is the world’s other strongest metal_

 

**Isn’t that what Cap’s shield is made from?**

 

_Yes. You don’t suppose he’d let me melt it down, do you? Probably not, considering that I don’t know what to actually make from it_

 

**No you are not allowed to melt down the shield**

 

_Do you think Thor could describe what the mount for the stone looks like?_

 

From his position draped over the couch, Clint turns his head far enough to glance skeptically at Thor, who is running in circles around the living room with Lila’s blanket tied around his neck and a truck in each hand, making ZOOM-ZOOM noises.

 

“I’M WIGHTNING AQUEEN!! DAT FIBBUH UHBWUH UDDER ‘CWEEWUH!!”

 

**I think you’d be lucky to get anything out of him that makes any sense**

 

_True_

 

**And I don’t want him reliving that anyway. He’s a happy camper right now. We need to keep it that way if you like sunshine**

 

_And lollipops. Don’t forget about the lollipops_

 

**Right. Sunshine and lollipops.**

 

“Uncuh Cwint, who was dat man?”

 

Clint looks up from his phone at Thor, who is lining up their bedpillows on the floor in preparation for a tumbling routine that will probably end up with something broken, hopefully not one of his arms. “Uh. Which man?”

 

“The one watching me in the gym. He had bwack hair.”

 

“Um. . . he’s. uh. one of Tony’s business partners. He just wanted to see the gym.”

 

“Oh.” Thor goes back to arranging pillows, then climbs up over Clint’s legs onto the other end of the couch in preparation for a flying leap. Whew. Good thing he bought that.

 

“I fought maybe he was from Asgard.”

 

Shit. So he didn’t buy it. “What makes you think that?” Clint asks cautiously.

 

“He had wong hair wike an Asgardian warrior.”

 

“Ah. Well, I can tell you he’s definitely not Asgardian.”

 

“Ok.” Thor jumps from the couch and lands spread-eagle in the pillows. “Dis is fun, Cwint! You should fy dis!”

 

“No thanks, pal.”

 

“Ok. We can talk about dat man some more den.”

 

And that’s how Clint (former gymnast, emphasis on the _former_ ) ended up with a bruised tailbone and two jammed fingers. It’s not professional for a doctor to giggle while examining a patient, right? And her suggestion that she could “put his ass in a sling” is really uncalled for.

 

* * *

 

_Text from Tony_

_Where’s that cuff?_

 

**What cuff?**

 

_The one that was attached to Thor when you found him_

 

**I have no idea. Ask Nat**

 

_I already did. Can you look for it?_

 

**Kinda busy rn**

 

Clint’s busy lying on the couch with a pillow under his butt and ice on his fingers. It’s hard to type one-handed. He’s in pain. Why doesn’t anyone understand that? Thor certainly doesn’t. Almost ten p.m. and he’s still role-playing “WIGHTNING AQUEEN!”, with Clint cast in the role of Mater. This requires a lot of getting up and running around, which Clint isn’t in the mood for right now, but he’s also not in the mood to argue with an increasingly whiny and overstimulated preschooler. So up and down it is, in the hopes that at some point the kid will crash and burn, preferably somewhere in the vicinity of the bed so Clint doesn’t have to carry him far.

 

_Do you think it might be in your apartment?_

 

**Why don’t you come and look for it yourself? And take Thor to the gym while you’re at it**

 

_I’m busy too_

 

There is a picture attached, of Vision leaning over a table steadying the orange stone with one hand while soldering something with the other. Bruce, in the background, is leaned back in his chair, head lolled to the side, glasses askew, clearly asleep. A StarkPad hangs from his dangling hand and Cap’s shield rests against his knee.

 

**Does Steve know you have his shield?**

 

_Maybe_

 

**Please tell me you aren’t going to melt it down**

 

_Not yet. Still hoping we can get in touch with Cat-man_

 

**His name is King T’Challa**

 

 _Cat-man is an honorific. He should be honored to have earned one of my nickname_ s

 

**Good luck. I’ll look for the cuff tomorrow, ok? I have to put the kid to bed before he kills me**

 

_I think you need the luck more than I do_

 

Clint hears a crash from the kitchen but he doesn’t have the energy to go and check what it was. A minute later Thor comes zooming into the room with two Oreos in each hand and chipmunk cheeks. Well, so much for the new pack Clint just stocked before they left for the farm.

 

“CWINT! Pway wif me!” Thor cries, spitting chocolate crumbs all over the floor, “you can be Mac the FUCK!”

 

“Um. . . how can I do that, Thor?” _Please don’t say you need to cut me open and get inside me like a taunton._

 

“I can ride on your back! Come on, PWEASE??” The kid is hopping up and down and his hair is tangled and his face is filthy and his Hawkeye pajamas are backwards and covered with crumbs and he’s got Lila’s quilt tied around his neck crooked and the Bucky bear tucked under one arm and its wearing the Cap hoodie inside out and how can Clint say no?

 

So even though it hurts, Clint gets down on his hands and knees and gives Thor a horsie ride around the living room. When they get back to the couch, Thor says, “Ok, crash wike Mac and I will fall off!” Thor throws himself off Clint’s back onto the couch, giggling, so Clint collapses onto the floor.

 

“Oh NO! I falled off the fuck!!” Thor cries as he jumps up and down on the couch. Cheek on the floor, Clint can see under the couch, and miracle of miracles, right there in front of his face is the little metal shackle.

 

* * *

**Text to Tony**

**guess what i found?**

 

_Your will to live? Your self-respect? A sense of humor?_

 

**You need to knock that shit off or I won’t give you the handcuff**

 

_You found it? Bruce will be right up, provided I can wake him up without bringing out the big guy_

 

**I’ll put it outside the door. I don’t want Thor to see it**

 

* * *

 

Thor didn’t have any nightmares while they were at the farm. Clint thinks maybe that means the nightmares are all done. Clint thinks wrongly. He wakes to the sound of thunder and the familiar tones of Thor’s screams.

 

“I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY!!” His arms and legs are flailing. Clint tries to catch them and gets kicked in the hand (Is it his injured hand? Of _course_ it’s his injured hand) for his trouble.

 

“Hey, it’s ok, Thor,” Clint mumbles, tucking his hand under his armpit as if that will help the pain. “Hey, buddy. Hey. . .” Clint pats Thor’s back, but he doesn’t seem like he’s actually awake. After a minute he settles down, so Clint falls back onto his pillow and tries to go back to sleep too. Just as he’s drifting off, another scream cuts through the night, causing him to jerk awake again.

 

“IT’S ALL MY FAULT!!”

 

“Huh? What’s all your fault?”

 

“EBRYFING!!” The kid throws himself into Clint’s waiting arms and starts sobbing so hard he doesn’t even make a noise; he’s just all jerking shoulders and sunken belly and heaving chest but no air is getting in. 

 

“Hey Thor it’s all right breathe come on breathe in for me it’s ok just take a breath,” Clint murmurs while he rubs Thor’s trembling back, until finally the kid takes in a shuddering gasp of air through his wide-open mouth. “That’s it, just breathe, it’s ok it’s ok it’s ok,” he keeps mumbling over Thor’s sobs. Poor little Thor is having to deal with all those scary, grown-up emotions big Thor has been stuffing for months and it’s not fucking fair. 

 

Clint’s trying to figure out how to comfort the kid when he realizes he is asleep again. Not only asleep, but so deeply asleep that he doesn’t even stir when Clint lays him down, just flops bonelessly back onto the pillow, snoring loudly. So loud. Even when he’s sleeping, this kid has to be making noise at all times. It’s basic toddler rules.

 

* * *

 

4 a.m.

 

Clint is awakened by an earth-shattering sneeze. He cracks open an eye to see Thor sitting up in bed looking startled, with twin lines of yellow-green snot hanging all the way down to his chin.

 

“My nose ‘pwoded!” he exclaims. Shiiiiit. Nathaniel’s cold has followed them home. That little liar was eating the raw cake batter after all.

 

“Hold still, buddy, let me get a tissue.”

 

“Why?” Thor asks, even though he’s got snot encrusting both nostrils and hanging into his mouth. _How could anyone not notice that??_

 

“To wipe your nose.” Trying not to gag, he reaches for the tissues, but he’s too late. Thor has already swiped the back of his hand across his nose and is staring at the snot with a look of consternation.

 

“What’s dat ‘tuff?”

 

“It’s snot.”

 

“It’s not what?”

 

“No, _snot_. It means you have a cold.” Clint tries to catch Thor’s hand so he can wipe the snot off, but again he’s too late. Thor has smeared it on the bedspread. _Fun_.

 

“I’m not cold.”

 

Clint closes his eyes and prays to the cosmos to grant him patience to get through this day. Pretty please? Ha! The cosmos does not care. 

 

* * *

 

Thor sneezes like he does everything else: with complete abandon. He has no consideration whatsoever for which direction his head is turned when it happens, which is how he ends up sneezing directly into Clint’s eye. So fun. SO fun, especially when he wipes his nose on his hand, then rubs his hand in Clint’s hair.

 

“No, Thor, you have to wipe it on a tissue.” He grabs Thor’s hand and wipes off the snot as best he can, then puts the tissue in front of Thor’s nose and says, “Ok, blow.”

 

But Thor just sits there looking confused.

 

“Like this.” Clint demonstrates, then says, “Ok, come on, blow!”

 

Still nothing.

 

Finally, in exasperation, Clint just wipes it and lets him go. A few seconds later Thor is rubbing snot directly from his nose onto the couch. “Goddammit, Thor, use a tissue!”

 

* * *

 

Clint is nuking the “dragon nuggets” for lunch (how is it possible it’s only lunchtime??) when a little voice floats in from the living room.

 

“Goddammit! (crash) Goddammit! (smash!) Goddammit! (aaahh-CHOOO!)”

 

Hurray for inadvertent vocabulary lessons! 

 

* * *

 

Yay! Steve is here to take Thor to the gym!

 

Boo! Steve says Thor can’t go to the gym if he’s sick. Steve thinks Thor should drink cod liver oil. AS IF!! Where the hell did Steve get cod liver oil in this day and age anyway? Did he bring it with him from 1945?

 

Thor runs right past Clint in his quest to get away and Clint doesn’t even try to catch him. Watching Steve chase Thor around the apartment while balancing a spoonful of cod liver oil in one hand is the only amusement Clint is going to get today, so he’s determined to enjoy it for as long as it lasts.

 

After a short chase, Steve says, “Look, it’s not that bad. See, Clint will take some.”

 

No, Clint will not take some. Uh-uh. Nope. Steve sighs and slurps it down himself. Judging by the grimace on his face, yes it is ‘that bad’. “Yum, that was. . . good.” Oh, Steve, you are such a terrible liar.

 

“Dat’s YUCKY, goddabbit!!”

 

Cue Steve’s surprised/offended face. “Thor, that’s not appropriate language.”

 

“Cwidt says it.”

 

Steve turns that surprised/offended face on Clint, as if he’s never heard Clint swear before. _Oh, get off your high horse, Captain A-swear-ica. I’ve heard you say that and worse._ But still, it does sound wrong coming from those sweet little lips. “I shouldn’t have said it, Thor, and you shouldn’t either.”

 

“I dod’t wadt to take dat yucky ‘tuff!”

 

Oh boy, the kid has gotten even harder to understand! Awesome!

 

Steve’s shoulders slump. “Fine, you don’t have to take it. At least let me wipe your nose, Thor,” he says reasonably, because he has forgotten the first rule of toddlers: they are not reasonable.

 

“No! I dod’t wike dat tissue. Dat hurts by doze!”

 

“If you let me wipe your nose, you can have a cookie,” Steve promises. Clint isn’t sure where he’s planning to get that cookie, unless he’s got it in his pocket or something, because Thor has already eaten all the cookies in the apartment. Clint decides to let Steve figure this out on his own.

 

“I wadt free cookies.”

 

“How about two?”

 

“Ok, ‘Teve, you cad cwead by doze for two cookies,” Thor says, angelically presenting his snot-smeared face to be wiped. Steve chews on his lip for a minute, tissue in hand, as if he’s trying to figure out how best to attack a complex math problem. Finally he dabs at Thor’s nose, missing half the snot, then carries the tissue held out in front of him between finger and thumb to the trash like it’s toxic waste.

 

“Great. Good boy. Ok, Clint, where are the cookies?”

 

There are no cookies. This is the END OF THE WORLD. Steve promises to order cookies. It’s still the END OF THE WORLD. Steve flees, with hasty promises to send the cookies, leaving Clint alone with a weeping toddler-sized snot-fountain and EBRYFIG IS HORRIBOH ADD BY DOZE HURTS AND DERE’S YUCKY ‘TUFF ID BY BOUF AND WAAAAAAAAHH!!!

 

* * *

 

The cookies arrive, delivered by Bucky, and everything is sunshine and lollipops again. Bucky doesn’t have any silly rules about little boys with runny noses not being allowed to go to the gym. THANK YOU BUCKY BARNES! Bucky Barnes wipes Thor’s nose with his bare hand. Gah-ross! And then he takes four cookies from the package with that same hand _without washing it first_. Don’t mind Clint, he’ll just be quietly barfing in the corner. 

 

Still gagging, Clint shoos them out of the apartment and heads down to the lab to check on Tony and the Wonderteam. Not that he’ll be much help—he didn’t see anything useful at the Hydra base and he doesn’t science, but at least he can lend moral support and see if they’ve made any progress.

 

The lab is a veritable hive of activity—assistants and bots rushing to and fro carrying various pieces of equipment that look fragile and important, Tony shouting orders, Vision shooting something with his laser—and in the middle of everything, there’s Bruce perched on a stool, his head on his arms on a counter, sound asleep. Next to him is a cage containing a little brown bunny, which is nervously gnawing on a piece of lettuce. Take your pet to work day, maybe? After a minute Tony looks up and Clint gives him a little wave. 

 

Tony strides up to him (stepping over the pieces of equipment strewn about the floor) and claps him on both shoulders. “Clint! My hero!” he cries. His eyes have that slightly crazed look to them that he gets when he hasn’t slept in far too long and is subsisting on coffee and junk food. “We have adamantium!”

 

“You do? I mean, was that cuff actually—“

 

“Yep, the real shit. Vision’s melting some of it down to make a mount for the stone. I still have absolutely no idea what it’s supposed to look like, but it’s a—Dummy, no, over here!” Tony interrupts himself to wave to one of the bots, which trundles over carrying Steve’s shield.

 

“Uh. . . Tony? Please tell me you’re not going to do what I think you’re going to do?”

 

“I’m not going to do what you think I’m going to do,” Tony says easily. He takes the shield from the bot’s claw and starts clearing a space on one of the counters.

 

“Tony, seriously, you can’t just—“

 

“I’m not going to melt it down.” Tony plunks the shield in the middle of the newly-cleared space and starts taking measurements. “At least, not yet. I need to figure out a way to use some of the vibranium to secure the stone to the mount, which again, I have no idea what it’s supposed to look like, so. . .” He trails off, brow furrowed in concentrations as he strokes the edge of the shield. “I wonder if Steve would notice if we just shaved off a bit of the thickness. Not too much, just—“

 

“No. Just. No.”

 

Tony picks up a micro-file and examines it in the light. “Well, our other choice is to get Thor in here and ask him to describe it to us—“

 

“That’s not going to happen either.” Clint looks around the lab, hoping another idea will present itself, because there is no way he’s going to subject Thor to that. He’d rather die than make the kid relive that trauma.

 

“Well, unless you’re a mind-reader, I guess we are shit out of luck.—“

 

Clint’s attention snaps back to Tony. “Uh, Tony, what did you just say?”

 

“We are shit out of luck?”

 

“No, before that. Something about being a mind-reader?”

 

“Yes, and since you aren’t—“

 

“I might not be, but Wanda is.”

 

Tony freezes, with the side of the micro-file hovering over the edge of the shield. “Clint, I might kiss you.”

 

“No, thanks,” Clint says hastily, but Tony has already dropped the micro-file and  is striding away. Clint really hopes he isn’t off to convince Wanda to read Thor’s mind again, because that would be almost as traumatic as having to describe it. Maybe more, judging by his reaction on the jet.

 

“FRIDAY!” Tony calls over the din.

 

“Yes, boss?”

 

“Friday, get Wanda Maximoff down here, stat! Bruce, wakey-wakey! We have a lead, thanks to Clint. Let’s get those counters cleared off and make room for phase three. Vision, put a hold on the torchiness for now until we get your girlfriend down here with the blueprints.”

 

Clint just sits back and watches the science bros work, because he has no idea whatsoever what any of that shit is or what it does. He finds that these guys are not exactly the well-oiled machine he had been picturing. There’s lots of bumping into each other and apparently aimless dashing back and forth carrying random pieces of equipment and swearing on Tony’s part, but by the time Wanda arrives they’ve got it mostly squared away, at least enough that she can walk through the lab without tripping on anything.

 

“What do you want, Tony?” Wanda asks bluntly. She’s got a towel around her neck, her hair is up in a messy bun and her workout shirt is stained with sweat. “I was busy.”

 

“Oh, doing what? Primping? I love that look, by the way. What do you use in your hair?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Right, shutting up. Ok, here’s the deal, we need to know what the mount for this stone looked like, and Thor’s the only one here who saw it. So we needed a mind-reader, and lo and behold. . .” He holds out his arms like TA-DA!

 

“I won’t do that, Tony. I won’t violate his privacy. You heard him screaming. I’m not making him go through that again.”

 

“No no no no, I’m not asking you to,” Tony reassures her hastily, “I want to know what you _already_ saw. Did you see the stone? I just need to know how the mount looked.”

 

“Mmm. . . yes, I saw it, but I don’t know what all the parts are called.”

 

“Can you draw it?” Tony snatches a StarkPad from a passing bot and holds it out to Wanda expectantly.

 

“Probably. Here. . .” She thinks for a second with her eyes closed, then starts sketching—a round base, something like fingers sticking up, holding the stone upright, then a light source behind it. “This was very bright, and the stone kind of. . . split the light into lots of different colors like a rainbow.”

 

“So it acts as a dispersive prism?”

 

“Yes, I think so.” 

 

“Amici or Pellin-Broca?”

 

“I have no idea.” She is still sketching, now a small stick figure shackled to a wall, suspended by its arms. A wavy line goes from the stone to his head and oh god that’s little Thor and Clint has seen enough. Wanda apparently has too because she shoves the StarkPad back into Tony’s hands and says, “Here, that’s all I saw.”

 

“So he was restrained to a wall? Just by the wrists? Any other—“

 

Wanda shakes her head. “I said that’s all I saw.” She turns around and walks away, visibly upset. Vision hurries after her.

 

“I need to know more about the position of the subject—“

 

“That’s Thor we’re talking about,” Clint says shortly, “not a ‘subject’”.

 

“Ok, yes, I get that, but if I’m going to reproduce this exactly, I need more details.”

 

Bruce, who has been standing nearby watching, takes the StarkPad and examines it, with his glasses hanging off his nose. “I think we have enough to get started without melting down the shield. Can we. . . blah blah blah refractive index and something something diffraction grating. . .”

 

And they’re off in science-land, leaving Clint far behind. A bot runs into the back of his leg, so he moves out of the way, then keeps on moving out of the door and down the hallway back to the elevator because he’s got nothing to contribute. Is it possible this could actually work? Are they actually close to figuring this out and turning little Thor back into big Thor? And will it hurt him as much going the other direction? And now Clint’s got a picture in his head of a little kid shackled to a wall screaming for his mama, and he really wants to hit something, so the gym it is.

 

* * *

 

That night Clint gets a cryptic text from Bruce at almost one in the morning. He hears his phone buzz because he’s still awake because Thor snores too loudly for any hope of sleep. 

 

_Ever hear a bunny scream?_

 

Clint blinks at the screen in the dark, trying to make sense of that. Finally he texts back, **What the hell are you talking about?**

 

A picture comes through next, of Steve’s shield standing upright on a flat round disk of shiny metal. The stone leans against the shield, and it’s all secured in place by what looks like duct tape but shinier. Clint can’t see the bunny.

 

**Where is the bunny?**

 

_Trial #1 didn’t work. The bunny died._


	27. Badadas Goriwwa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint is mean! Thor hates Clint forever!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you couldn't tell by the last line of the previous chapter, this story is about to take a darker turn. My apologies. There will still be plenty of Clint snark and Bucky goodness, however, as well as a sprinkling of toddler-logic.

* * *

 

 

**Please tell me you didn’t experiment on that bunny?!**

 

_I’m sorry, but there’s no way I’m doing human (or even Norse god) trials without knowing the effect on living tissue. It’s too risky, believe me._

 

Clint finds it hard to argue with that logic, given that Bruce is obviously speaking from experience.

 

* * *

 

The snot-fountain is worse in the morning. Clint gives up on wiping it, but that’s ok, because Thor has discovered that his cape makes a great handkerchief. He drags it around the apartment, snuffling and coughing, until the part that’s wrapped around his neck is covered in crusted-over goo. Clint follows him around sanitizing everything in the vain hope the germs don’t spread. 

 

Bucky shows up at nine and says, “Ready to go to the gym, squirt?” Thor holds up his arms to be picked up, so Bucky does, which puts the crusty cape right in front of his face. He frowns at it, then lays his flesh hand on Thor’s forehead.

 

“You up for this, kiddo? You feel a little warm.”

 

“Yes, I wadt to go to the gyb.”

 

“Maybe you should skip it today and rest until you feel better.” Bucky starts to put Thor down on the couch. He’s not going to leave, is he? After a morning spent chasing a sick kid around while he gets into everything with snot-covered fingers, Clint is ready for a break.

 

“How about if you read him a book instead,” Clint suggests hastily. “Here, what about this one?” He pulls the first book his hand touches from the shelf, which happens to be Cars and Trucks and Things that Go. It’s one of Nathaniel’s favorites, primarily for the fact that one of the main characters is a worm. Last Christmas Laura got him a Lowly the Worm stuffed animal, and the next day they found it cut open with the stuffing pulled out. When confronted, Nathaniel said blithely, “I was trying to dissect it, mom.”

 

“Yeah, ok,” Bucky says, taking the book over Thor’s weak protests. He sits down with the kid on his lap, and proceeds to read every. word. to him (rookie mistake), even does different voices for each character and sound effects and everything. Thor sticks the corner of the cape into his mouth and leans his head against Bucky’s shoulder. Aww, he’s snuggling in. . . nope, he’s wiping his nose on Bucky’s shirt. Bucky doesn’t seem to notice because he’s too focused on getting the voice right for Bananas Gorilla.

 

Clint tidies the living room around them while Thor’s eyes get droopier and droopier, and his shoulders along with them, until he is so sunk down that he has practically disappeared into Bucky’s armpit. Finally Bucky pries his eyes away from the page long enough to notice that he’s losing his audience.

 

“You tired, squirt?”

 

“Doe,” Thor answers, then yawns like a lion cub.

 

“You look tired to me. How ‘bout a nap?”

 

“Uh, no, we don’t do naps,” Clint responds quickly.

 

“Why the fu—heck not?”

 

“Because then he doesn’t sleep at night.”

 

“Come on, look at him. Kid needs a nap.”

 

Ok, fine, Bucky is right, goddammit. Judging by Thor’s half-closed eyes and bobbing head, he’s going to nap whether Clint lets him or not. Might as well happen in a bed rather than on the couch. “All right, fine. Go ahead and put him to bed.”

 

“Me? Uh—that didn't work out so well last time—“ Aww, Bucky can get flustered. Chalk up another emotion on the scoreboard. Well, Clint’s not going to rescue him. He can either put the kid in the bed, or he can sit on the couch and hold him while he sleeps. Bucky looks down at Thor’s head tucked into his armpit, sighs, and says, “Yeah, ok.”

 

They’re in the bedroom a long time. Clint cleans up the entire kitchen, puts away all the toys, and gets out the coffee he put in the fridge from breakfast. As he is sitting down to drink it, he gets a text from Tony.

 

_Test #3_

 

There is a video attached, of a tiny bunny with half its hair singed off. It hops crookedly a few times then falls over. Bruce’s hand appears just as the video cuts off. What the hell does that mean?

 

**You mean it lived?**

 

 _Sorta_.

 

**That’s good, right?**

 

_Sorta. That started out as an adult rabbit._

 

**So it’s progress?**

 

_Sure. Progress in the wrong direction._

 

That’s all he gets from Tony, which is frustrating. Clint drops his phone on the table. Dang, it's taking Bucky a long time to put the kid to bed. He’s just starting to wonder whether Bucky fell asleep too when the man reappears, looking sheepish.

 

“What took you so long?”

 

Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Kid told me he loves me,” he tells the wall. “Well, he said, ‘I wub you.”

 

Clint can’t help the little smirk that tugs up the corner of his mouth. “What did you say?”

 

“I kinda got a little. . . tongue-tied. My mind went blank, then I accidentally told him a story about when me and Stevie saw an elephant.”

 

Clint pauses in opening the fridge to laugh, because his own reaction hadn’t been much different. He takes two beers out of the fridge and hands both to Bucky to open.

 

“Shut up," Bucky says, but he takes the bottles anyway. "I ain’t told anyone I love you since I was twelve, man.” He opens both bottles at the same time and hands one back to Clint.

 

“Really?” Clint had always thought it was Hydra who brainwashed the emotions outta Bucky. Turns out the indoctrination started much earlier than that. He pulls out both chairs from the table and nudges one toward Bucky, who sits automatically. Yep, he and Bucky are sitting and having a beer again. This is _totally normal_. “You should try it sometime. It’s very freeing.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

“You tell Steve yet?”

 

Bucky takes a long swig of his beer before answering. He’s talking to the wall again, just over Clint’s shoulder. “I’m thinking about it. It’s hard, you know? The words don’t wanna come out.”

 

Oh, Clint knows. He’s experienced that feeling. Damn, he’s experiencing that feeling right now. Here he is, lecturing Bucky about the need to tell people what he’s been through, when he’s too afraid to tell his own story, even though it might help shake Bucky’s words loose. In fact, he’s only ever told four people what happened to him. The first was Laura, after he freaked out when she touched him unexpectedly, and she asked him point-blank. Even then he only told her the bare minimum, just enough for her to understand that she shouldn’t grab his ass from behind. 

 

The second was Nat, when they were on an undercover mission and he got trapped in an alleyway by four guys who outweighed him by a collective thousand pounds (only a _slight_ exaggeration). Instead of beating him, they held him down and started trying to pull off his pants. Nat showed up, pulled a gun out of her slinky pocketless dress, and shot them all. Then she took him back to their hotel, wrapped him up in a blanket and put a cup of coffee in his hands, and asked him if he wanted to talk. All he could choke out was _He wore Old Spice_. 

 

The third was Steve, when he had to explain to him why he shouldn’t wear Old Spice.

 

The fourth was his therapist. She got the whole story out of him, but it took three sessions and a whole box of tissues. Now he’s about to tell Bucky, the least sympathetic person he knows.

 

Clint gulps his beer and cradles the bottle in his hands, eyes fixed on the label but not really seeing it. “Bucky, um. . . when I was four, my mother—she didn’t—she wasn’t able to handle me and my brother. She was dealing with her own shit, and she couldn’t—“ Clint risks a glance up at Bucky, and discovers that his body is turned sideways, but he is watching Clint warily out of the corner of his eye. 

 

“Anyway, she—uh—she left us with a woman who told us to call her grandma. She gave us a place to stay but that’s about it. We ate whatever we could scrounge.” Clint picks at the label of his bottle, trying to work up the courage to continue. Bucky is still giving him that silent sideways glance. No listening noises, nothing. He has gone completely still. “There were—um—there were all these young women around, and men coming and going, and, and I was really too young to know what was going on, you know?”

 

Bucky does not respond. He’s like a statue.

 

“There was one man who—he wasn’t—” Clint pauses to take another gulp of liquid courage even though it has gone warm and flat. “He wasn’t interested in the girls,” he says all in a rush. “He—he kept bringing me gifts and he wanted to touch my hair. He smelled funny and I remember I didn’t like him, but grandma said I had to let him touch me. I didn’t understand why.”

 

Bucky’s head turns just enough that Clint can tell he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek. Still he says nothing, but his breathing has picked up speed. Clint soldiers on, forcing the words past the lump in his throat.

 

“Then one night he came over really late. He talked to grandma for a while, then she said I had to go with him into a bedroom. . .” Clint swallows hard. God, this is tough. He had forgotten how tough it was to say this shit, especially to an audience who gives nothing back. He decides to skip over the worst part, figuring Bucky can put the pieces together on his own. “So—um—I remember crying afterward, and her giving me some money to buy ice cream. There was blood running down the inside of my leg and I was crying while I ate the ice cream, and grandma called me an ungrateful little shit.”

 

There it is, the whole sordid story (or as much of it as he can tell without turning into a soggy mess). Clint keeps picking at the label on his bottle while he waits to see how Bucky will respond. For a long time there’s nothing, no words, no movement, nothing. Clint has almost given up when Bucky, still staring at the wall, says in a rough voice, “You tell Stevie?”

 

“Yeah, I told him. He was wearing the same aftershave and it made me sick, so I had to tell him to change it, and then I had to tell him why.”

 

There’s another long pause. Bucky moves his jaw back and forth, swallows a few times, then clears his throat. “How’d he take it? He start cryin’?”

 

“Uh, no,” Clint says, surprised, “he switched to a different aftershave.”

 

Bucky’s lip twists down at the corner, just a little. “Couple months ago I told him to stop buying that shitty Wheatabix cereal cuz those fucking Hydra assholes made me eat it all the time and I fucking hated it. He started crying like a goddamn baby. I tried to tell him fine I’ll eat the fucking cereal, but that only made him cry harder.”

 

“Do you think maybe he was crying about your salty language?”

 

“Everything’s a goddamn joke to you, isn’t it?” Bucky says, but his mouth is curled up at the corner now instead of down, which is what Clint wanted.

 

“It’s either laugh or cry, and it doesn’t seem like you like it when people cry,” Clint replies. That earns him a breathy chuckle. “Look, man, just _talk_ to him. It’ll make things better, I swear.”

 

“I _do_ talk to him, but everytime I open my mouth to tell him something that means anything, my voice don’t work.”

 

“I know the feeling. Keep trying; maybe one day it’ll work.”

 

“I’ll think about it.” Bucky drains last few swallows of his beer and stands up. “I gotta get back. I promised Stevie I’d. um. go someplace with him.”

 

“Oh? Where?” Clint asks, because he does not know how to keep his mouth shut.

 

“. . . Shopping,” Bucky says, with a mix of loathing and embarrassment that is almost physically painful. Oh god Clint wants to laugh right now, but Bucky would probably strangle him.

 

"Why doesn't he just have Friday do it for him? She'll deliver whatever you want."

 

"Yeah, I know, but Stevie is all like-" his voice cranks up in a parody of Steve's "-'This asparagus isn't fresh!' and I'm thinking what the hell, I've seen you eat out of the garbage, punk."

 

Clint is barely holding it together, but when Bucky adds glumly, "He's probably gonna make me try on jeans," it pushes him over the edge. "Yeah, laugh it up, wiseguy," Bucky grouses. "Last time he tried to get me to buy a plaid shirt. Fucking plaid. If I wanted to dress like a grandpa, I'd shop in his closet." And he clumps out without another word, leaving Clint wiping away tears.

 

* * *

 

Thor sleeps for three hours and wakes up on the wrong side of the bed. Clint tells him that and it does not go over well.

 

“I did DOT wake up od the wrog side of the bed! I waked up od DIS SIDE!”

 

“All right, all right, buddy. You ok?”

 

“By tug is ‘woh-wed.”

 

“Your. . . tongue is. . . lowered?” Clint guesses.

 

“No, _woh-wed_!”

 

Yeah, no idea. Moving on. “Um. . . ok. You slept through lunch. Do you want something to eat?”

 

“Yes. Doe.”

 

“Well, which is it?”

 

“I _dod’t doe_!” The pout morphs into a high-pitched whining sound that causes Clint’s jaw to clench. “AHHH- _CHOO_!! I dod’t wike dat, Cwidt! Bake dat ‘top!”

 

“I can’t make you stop sneezing, pal. It’s just a cold. You just have to get through it and then you’ll feel better soon. You’ve never had a cold before?”

 

“Doe,” Thor whines miserably. “Dis shirt is itchy od by deck.”

 

“On your neck?”

 

“Yes. Subfig is itchig beeeee. I dod’t wike dat!”

 

Clint examines the back of the neck of the Hawkeye pj shirt and sees the tag, which has apparently been there the whole time so why is it suddenly itchy now? “There’s a tag here. Is that it?”

 

“I dod’t wadt ady tag id by shirt.”

 

“Ok, I’ll cut it out.” Yes, that’s a reasonable solution. He’ll cut the tag out and then Thor will be happy and the whining sound will stop, right? Right. Clint picks up his pocketknife and cuts the tag out of the shirt. As soon as he does it, Thor begins to whine louder.

 

“You cutted by shirt!! WAAAAH!!”

 

Oh, good grief. Toddler logic is going to kill them both. “It’s ok, Thor, it was just the tag,” he says reasonably, but the whining does not stop. “How about some Pop-tarts? That will make you feel better.” Without waiting for an answer, he picks the kid up and sits him on his hip. Thor immediately rubs his runny nose on Clint’s shoulder. Argh! At least he’s quiet now.

 

The quiet doesn’t last for long, unfortunately.

 

“Subuddy eated by pop-part!” (it was him. Clint makes him another one)

 

“Dis pop-parp has too biddy ‘prickohs!” (“I’ll take some sprinkles off, ok?”)

 

“Dis pot-tarp doesd’t hab eduff ‘prickohs!” (“I can solve that problem, kiddo.”)

“WAAAAH!! You eated by pot-tart!”

 

“Subfig is poking be id by sock!”

 

“WAAAAHH! You taked by sock off!! By foot is cold!!” (“I was just checking to see what was poking you. Here, I’ll put it back on.”)

 

“I dod’t wike dat sock! By foot is too hot!” (“Well, what do you want then?!”)

 

“By ears are too cold!”

 

“Doe, I dod’t wadt to wear a hat! By ears are too hot!”

 

“Dere’s icky ‘tuff id by bouf!” (“Here’s a hint: If you’d stop crying, your nose wouldn’t run so much.”)

 

“You wiped by doze! Dat hurts by doze!” (“It was running into your mouth. I thought you didn’t like that?”)

 

After an hour of this, just as Clint is about to explode, he catches the kid pulling on his ear, and it sinks in that he’s seen him do that at least three times that day. Clint remembers Lila doing that, every spring like clockwork before they had tubes put in her ears. Taking a deep breath, Clint finally sets aside his irritation and looks at him—actually looks, beyond just the surface _he’s driving me craaaazy_ —and sees the dark circles under the kid’s dull eyes, the miserable wrinkled-up face, the hunched shoulders, the dry lips, the thick green snot bubbling from his nose. . . Huh. Maybe this isn’t just a simple cold.

 

He leans in to check Thor’s temperature, and of course at that moment Thor coughs, open-mouthed, in Clint’s direction. Wiping away the droplets from his face, Clint soldiers on and puts his hand against Thor’s forehead. He definitely feels warm, _probably_ warmer than he usually does, but it’s hard to tell. Clint’s manual thermometer is calibrated for the difference between 98.6 and 100; it’s not as easy to perceive whatever passes for a fever for a Norse God. Maybe a trip to see Dr. Cho is in order.

 

* * *

 

Thor sits with his back against Clint’s chest on the exam table, watching warily while Dr. Cho gets out her equipment. He’s definitely warmer than usual, Clint decides, judging by the layer of sweat that is developing where their bodies meet.  The front of Clint’s shirt is nearly soaked through.

 

“This won’t hurt at all, Thor,” Dr. Cho says cheerily. “I’m just going to look in your ears and nose and mouth to see if everything is healthy. All you have to do is sit still, and when I’m done you can have a lollipop.”

 

“By froat feels ‘woh-wed,” Thor croaks.

 

“Um. . .” Cho pauses. Clint can see the wheels turning in her head while she tries to figure out what that means. Good luck, doc. “. . . Woolly?”

 

“Doe, _woh-wed_.”

 

“. . . Swollen?”

 

Thor nods solemnly. Dr. Cho, toddler-translator extraordinaire. Maybe she can figure out what “Worak” means next.

 

“Ok, well, let’s have a look. I’m going to start with your ears, ok?” She sticks the light in his ear before he has a chance to object, making a little _hmm_ noise as she peers into the scope. Clint’s heard that noise before, right before the doctor started giving him shit about not bringing Lila in sooner.

 

When she’s done, Thor asks, “What did you see id dere?”

 

“I saw Caillou!”

 

_Ix-nay on the Aillou-cay!_

 

Thor’s eyes widen and his mouth curls up in the first smile Clint has seen today. “You did? Cwidt, Heawer Cho seed Cai-you id by ear!”

 

The smile is nice to see, but seriously? Caillou? “That’s great, buddy,” Clint says cheerfully, while glaring daggers at Cho. She sort of gives him an amused half-shrug, like she knows exactly what he means and she’s not sorry in the least.

 

Cho aims the light in Thor’s other ear and makes that _hmm_ sound again, a little louder this time.

 

“What did you see in dat wud?”

 

“Oh. Um. . . I saw . . . Elmo?” she says, looking at Clint for confirmation. No, that’s even worse!

 

“Eh-bo? Who is dat?!”

 

“He’s just a lovable little red monster from Sesame Street. I bet Clint would let you watch him if you ask really nice.”

 

_Thanks, doc. Thank you so fucking much._

 

Cho manages to ignore the look of doom he is shooting at her while she examines Thor’s mouth and throat (another _hmm_ “I saw Spongebob!”), checks his temp (104, but Clint can’t remember what Thor’s ‘normal’ is), feels the glands under his jaw, then slides the stethoscope up under his shirt to listen to his breathing. When she’s done, she pulls off her stethoscope and hands Thor a lollipop. 

 

“Did I do a good job holdig ‘till?”

 

“You did great, sweetheart,” she says, patting him on the shoulder, then she turns to Clint. Her expression is grim. 

 

“Well? I’m guessing it’s more than just a cold, huh?”

 

“He’s running a fever because he’s got a double ear infection, tonsilitis, and a sinus infection. His throat feels swollen because his tonsils are nearly touching in the middle. At least his lungs sound clear, so it's just upper respiratory. How long has he been sick?”

 

Oh, geez. Clint feels an inch tall. “Only a couple of days. My son had a cold and I guess he caught it. Sorry.”

 

“It’s not your fault. Kids swap germs all the time,” she says matter-of-factly, like she’s not worried, but her eyebrows are telling a different story. She glances at Thor, mouth twisted. “I’m going to give you some antibiotics. The best choice would be a. . . s-h-o-t, but I don’t think that would go over very well.”

 

“Yeah, probably not. I’d prefer not to suffer through another thunderstorm.”

 

“I dod’t wike dat fudder eider!” Thor chimes in. Cho gives him the side eye, then raises her eyebrows at Clint.

 

“Didn’t you—?” she mouths.

 

“I tried,” Clint mouths back.

 

“What are you talkig about?” Thor pipes up. 

 

“Oh, nothing.” Thor’s nose is running again so Clint grabs a tissue to try to wipe it. The kid deftly avoids the tissue and instead rubs his nose on Clint’s shoulder. Perfect.

 

* * *

 

Thor doesn’t want to take any “icky bedisid”. Now Clint’s the one chasing him around the apartment with a spoon, trying to convince him it’s yummy, really (he’s lying—it tastes like fruity vomit).

 

“DOE! I dod’t wike dat!!”

 

“It’s strawberry flavored, like Pop-tarts!”

 

“Dat’s yucky!” Thor cries, holding his shirt over his mouth with both hands as Clint doggedly chases him round and round the coffee table. They are at a standoff for a moment, but then Clint reverses direction unexpectedly and Thor runs right into him. “DOE DOE DOE!! WET BE GO!!” Thor screams, struggling to get away, but Clint holds him tight.

 

The kid will not open his mouth, so Clint ends up having to sit on him, pinning his arms down, and pry his jaw open, while Thor squirms and whines and tries to bite him. As soon as he gets the medicine down, Clint lets him up.

 

“There, that wasn’t so bad, right?”

 

Thor folds his arms and fixes him with a terrific scowl. “Dat was BEAD!”

 

“Sorry, kiddo, you have to take the medicine so you can feel better. Doctor’s orders.”

 

“I dod’t wike dat bead ol’ doctor, add I dod’t wike you eider!”

 

“Then do you want to sleep in your own bed tonight?”

 

“DOE!”

 

Clint shrugs, because he knows he’s won this round. Thor may complain, but there’s no way he’s gonna sleep alone, so what can he do?

 

Thor gives him the cold shoulder the rest of the evening, but when it’s time to go to sleep, he climbs into the big bed and snuggles up to Clint just like usual.

 

“So do you forgive me?”

 

“Forgib you for what?” Thor says sleepily, wrapping an arm around Clint's stomach and rubbing his goopy nose against his shoulder.

 

_That’s my boy._


	28. Dat 'mewwing fing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor's FINE. He's fine! Why is Bucky being such a worry-wart? Oh, that's why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with added Hercules, for E.

* * *

 

Oh boy, Thor lets Clint sleep in until almost 5:30. Yippee! He makes up for it by coughing into Clint’s coffee. Boo!

 

After breakfast, it’s time for another dose of antibiotics. Yippee!! It’s a bit more of a fight this time, now that Thor knows exactly how horrible it is. After an exciting chase; an all-out, no-holds-barred, very one-sided fistfight; and a thunderstorm, Clint finally manages to hold Thor down on the kitchen floor, pry his mouth open, and dump most of a dose of antibiotics down his throat. The rest of it ends up on the front of the Hawkeye jammies and splattered all over the kitchen.

 

“There’s no point in fighting. You’re going to take the medicine anyway,” Clint says at he lets the kid up.

 

“DEBER!!”

 

“You say ‘Never’, but you just took it and you didn’t die. So tonight you can just take it without a fight.”

 

“DEBER!!!” The kid sprints down the hall and out of sight. With a sigh, Clint cleans up the splattered red droplets off the floor and cabinets and chair legs, then trudges wearily down the hall to the bathroom, where he finds Thor curled up in the cupboard, fast asleep. Eh, it won’t hurt him to nap like that, right? Right.

 

* * *

 

_Text from: Steve_

_It’s movie night again_

 

**Thor’s still sick**

 

_Sam: Then a movie would be perfect_

 

_Nat: Which one? No more anthropomorphic vehicles please_

 

_Tony: Sorry, tied up in the lab. Catch you next time_

 

_Bruce: Me too_

 

_Wanda: I also vote for no more anthro-whatever vehicles._

 

_Sam: How about Hercules? His parents are alive and everything._

 

_Steve: sure that’s perfect_

 

**Once again Sam you have hit the nail on the head. Are there any Disney movies out there that AREN’T Thor’s life story?**

 

 _Nat: Our boy’s life is the typical hero’s journey. Can’t fault Disney for that_ *

 

* * *

 

Thor watches the movie curled up against Bucky’s chest in complete silence, except for his breathing, which sounds like a malfunctioning chainsaw. Clint keeps checking to see if he’s fallen asleep (so they can turn the movie off, natch), but his eyes are open in a vacant stare. Even when it’s over, he still doesn’t move or even blink.

 

“What’d you think, squirt?”

 

Thor turns that wide-eyed stare on Bucky. “I’b Hercuwes,” he says in an awed tone.

 

What can they say to that except, “Well, yes, actually you are.”?

 

The gaze swings to Clint. “Add you are Phil.”

 

Great. Thanks. “Me? What about Bucky?”

 

“Doe, Bucky is Pegasus.”

 

“That sounds right,” Nat says, grinning. Now everyone else is nodding too like _duh_. So Bucky is a heroic winged horse, and Clint is a short (ok, that part’s correct at least), grumpy, chubby satyr. Nice.

 

* * *

 

Before bed, Clint has to get another dose of medicine into the kid. This time he has backup—Bucky, the special unicorn (pegasus, whatever). Bucky tries to sweet-talk him into it, but the kid is. not. having it.

 

“I dod’t wike dat icky bedisid!”

 

“It ain’t so bad, squirt,” Bucky says. He sticks his finger in the spoon and holds it up. “See, I’ll try it.” The finger goes into Bucky’s mouth, and for just a second, the ultra-stoic supersoldier assassin forgets how to control his face: his eyes squeeze shut, his nose wrinkles, and his mouth contorts into a horrible grimace. Swallowing hard, he says, “Ok, so it’s not great. Just drink it quick and you can have some ice cream.”

 

“DOE!”

 

Clint pulls Bucky aside and says to him quietly, “We’re going to have to hold him down. There’s no other way.”

 

Bucky’s eyes cut to Thor, who is watching them suspiciously. “I can’t do that to him, man. That’s. . . mean.”

 

“It’s _necessary_.”

 

“Come on. . .”

 

By now, Thor has figured out what they are about to do and takes off running down the hall, right toward a dead end. Clint runs after him. “Get ready to catch him,” he shouts back to Bucky, who is still standing flat-footed in the entrance to the kitchen.

 

Thor, apparently realizing he has no exit in front of him, does an abrupt turn and feints to the right. Clint tries to grab him but he zig-zags back to the left and slips past him back to the living room, where Bucky catches him in a bear hug.

 

“It’s ok, squirt, just calm down,” Bucky soothes, but Thor is a whirlwind of flying arms and legs, and whirlwinds rarely listen to directions. Bucky looks helplessly at Clint while Thor shouts and squirms, pulls at his arms and beats on his shoulder with tiny, futile blows.

 

“Hold him down on the couch,” Clint directs him as he measures out the medicine, but Bucky looks back and forth between the couch and the kid and _doesn’t move_. Conflicted—hey, that’s another emotion for the scoreboard. Great, now if Bucky would just GET OVER IT, they can get this medicine into the kid and put him to bed. “Come on, Buck, just do it!”

 

“Sorry, Thor,” Bucky says, hesitantly trying to catch the kid’s flailing limbs, “I’m sorry, buddy.” Bucky takes a puny fist to the chin in his attempts to corral Thor’s arms. He keeps up a running stream of _Sorry’_ s and _I’m not trying to hurt ya’_ s and _It’s ok, buddy’_ s while he tenderly wraps the struggling kid up in an awkward embrace and pins him to the couch. “Get it over with quick, Clint,” Bucky growls through gritted teeth over Thor’s screams, like CLINT was the one holding up the process.

 

Clint kneels next to the kid’s head and tries to get the medicine into him, but Thor is turning his head back and forth so fast Clint can’t get to his mouth. He ends up spilling half the dose of antibiotic before he manages to get the kid’s head stabilized and his mouth pried open, to a continuous soundtrack of Bucky murmuring “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorryI’msorryI’msorry. . .” 

 

As soon as he gets the medicine down, they both let go, and Thor scrambles up and back onto the arm of the couch. His lip is poking out, his chin is wrinkled up, and his eyes—oh god, the _drama_! Clint is so over it. Why put them all through such trauma over a mouthful of medicine?

 

Clint turns to Bucky and starts to roll his eyes, but then he sees that Bucky’s face is twisted up in sympathy. He has obviously fallen for the act hook, line, and sinker.

 

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Bucky says. “I’m so sorry.” Thor hesitates for a second, then Bucky opens his arms and Thor throws himself into them. And _then_! they’re both glaring at Clint accusingly, as if he’s the bad guy for trying to help the kid get better. Fine! Does Bucky want to sleep with the kid tonight?? No, Bucky does not.

 

Luckily, Thor gets over it within a few minutes and allows himself to be transferred, still sniffling, to Clint’s arms. Bucky gives him one last pat to the back and _I’m sorry_ before he scoots out the door, escaping back to his nice peaceful apartment, where there are no little boys accusing him of trying to murder them with fruity vomit.

 

* * *

 

When Clint wakes up, it’s to the sound of a seal in the bed. At least that’s how his sleep-fogged mind interprets the noise. After he gets his wits together a little better, he realizes it’s Thor making that horrible barking sound, and in between the barks, a high-pitched wheeze as he inhales. Shit, that sounds awful, and Clint’s about to panic, until he remembers about croup. Cooper had it over and over as a toddler, and it sounded like he was dying, but when they rushed him to the ER, the doctor told them they were wasting their time because they could have treated it at home. So. . . what is that treatment again?

 

“Hey, Thor,” Clint says. The only response is more coughing and wheezing. Thor seems like he’s still mostly asleep, even though he’s soaked in sweat and his whole body jerks every time he coughs. Clint fumbles his phone off the nightstand to text Laura.

 

**How do you treat croup?**

 

While he waits for the response, he brushes Thor’s damp hair back and lays the back of his hand against his forehead. The kid feels warmer than yesterday, but Clint’s not sure about that. It could just be from being under the covers. Kids’ fevers always spike at night anyway, don’t they?

 

His phone finally buzzes. _Oh no, is my little buddy sick?? For croup, take him in the bathroom and run the shower for a while. Breathing the moist air should help_

 

**Thanks**

 

Clint scoops Thor up and carries him to the bathroom. The kid is making a little whining sound now between the coughs and wheezes. His eyes are still mostly closed, but now more screwed shut than peacefully sleeping. “It’s ok, pal,” Clint soothes while he turns on the water one-handed, as Thor flops around and squirms.

 

“Dod’t wike dat,” Thor whines fitfully, then he’s gasping and barking again into Clint’s shoulder. Clint sits down on the floor with his back against the tub and rubs his back, murmuring a stream of comforting phrases into his ear, until finally the bathroom fills up with steam, and like magic, the barking subsides. As soon as his breathing quiets, Thor is back to sleep again. Clint needs to turn off the water, but he’s too tired to get up. Even though his seat is uncomfortable, the room is warm and the sound of the water is calming, and before he knows it he has nodded off right there on the bathroom floor with the kid draped over him like a heated blanket. A few minutes later he is awakened by his phone buzzing with a text from Laura.

 

_Did that help?_

 

**Yes, it helped. Thanks**

 

_Anytime. Poor little guy. I’m sorry Nathaniel got him sick! Give him a kiss from me._

 

Clint looks down at the little snot-covered face against his shoulder. His lips are dry, and his nose and cheeks are chapped and red from being wiped so much. Maybe he’ll take a raincheck on that kiss.

 

**It’s just a cold and ear infection. He’ll be fine**

 

Clint manages to get up and get back to bed without waking Thor up. If they can just get some sleep, he should be fine in the morning, right? Yes, definitely.

 

* * *

 

The kid is not fine in the morning. Clint barely even has to pin him down to get the next dose of medicine in him. He only puts up a weak struggle, then lays still and lets Clint pour the disgusting stuff down his throat, which somehow manages to make Clint feel even worse.

 

“Sorry, buddy. I’m so sorry,” Clint says in unconscious imitation of Bucky.

 

Thor doubles over with a coughing fit. When it’s done, he sniffles and says, “Dat’s ok, Cwidt. I doe you are fying to bake be feel better.”

 

“That’s good. Do you want some breakfast?”

 

“Doe fake you. By ‘tubach doesd’t wadt adyfig. Cad I pway wif the fucks?”

 

“Sure you can. Maybe later you’ll feel like eating.”

 

“Baybe.” Thor drags his cape into the living room and sits down next to the toy box. Clint folds his arms and watches as the kid listlessly pushes a truck back and forth. His breathing still sounds a little labored, but he’s not wheezing anymore. Clint knows what asthma sounds like, and this isn’t it. Probably it’s just because his nose is so stuffed up he can’t breathe through it, poor kid.

 

With one last glance at the miserable figure on the floor, Clint goes into the kitchen and makes himself cofffffeeeee and a couple of pieces of toast for breakfast. By the time he comes back into the living room, he finds Thor curled up on the floor sound asleep. Clint checks him over and finds that he’s still breathing, so he leaves the kid there while he collapses into a chair and surfs the internet for a while.

 

Thor wakes himself up coughing a few minutes later, dammit. Long enough to count as a “nap”, not long enough to really make a difference in his mood. He stands in the living room rubbing his eyes on the crustiest part of the cape and whining while Clint tries to convince him that he would feel better with some food in his stomach.

 

“Come on, bud, it’s like putting gas in the tank. The truck doesn’t run on an empty tank.”

 

“I’b DOT a fuuuuuck!”

 

“Ok, fine, bad analogy then, but you do need to eat. How about some pancakes?”

 

“I dod’t wiiiiike padcakes!”

 

“Yes, you do, remember? Laura made them for you and you ate them all up.”

 

“I dod’t waaaaadt dem!”

 

“How about something to drink, at least? I could make you a milkshake,” Clint suggests, thinking he could sneak some protein powder in it so the kid would at least get a few calories in him.

 

Thor snuffles and peeks over the edge of the cape. “Chocowate?” he asks in a small quavery voice. Has the kid been taking drama lessons from Nathaniel or something?

 

“Sure. Come on.” Clint beckons toward the kitchen, but the kid just stands there making a little sound like a wounded puppy, so Clint picks him up and sits him at the table. “Ok, there you go. milkshake coming right up.”

 

Clint scoops some chocolate ice cream into the blender, then uses his body to block Thor’s line of sight while he adds a banana and a scoop of protein powder. What the kid doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?

 

“All righty, pal, milkshake is ready,” Clint says, turning around to find Thor with his cheek on the table, half-asleep. “Come on, Thor, sit up and eat, you’ll feel better.” The only response is a little whimpering sound. Clint sets the cup down on the table and pulls Thor’s shoulders up until he’s sitting more upright. “There, see? You’re ok. I’ll even give you some raspberries,” he says brightly, pulling the last precious container of fruit from the fridge. “Doesn’t that sound good?”

 

Thor rubs at his ear and coughs wetly into his hand. “Ok, Cwidt,” he rasps, then he picks up a raspberry from the container with that same hand and puts it in his mouth, where he chews like a baby sloth. It’s almost a full minute before he swallows hard. “By froat hurts,” he whines.

 

“That’s a normal part of having a cold,” Clint attempts to reassure him. “You’ll feel better as soon as the medicine kicks in.”

 

“I dod’t wadt dat bedisid to kick be,” Thor grumps.

 

“No, I mean when it starts working. Try some milkshake.” Clint holds the cup close to Thor’s mouth, hoping the smell of chocolate will tempt him, but his lips remain stubbornly closed.

 

“Come on, buddy, it’s good. Just take a sip.”

 

The kid’s shaggy head shakes back and forth. Clint’s about to try again when the door opens and Bucky just strolls right in like he owns the place. 

 

“Come on in,” Clint calls. He’s going for light sarcasm, but it must have been too light because Bucky comes into the kitchen like he thinks he’s been invited. Geez, the nerve of some people.

 

Bucky doesn’t even bother to greet Clint, just goes straight for Thor and crouches down beside his chair. “Heya, squirt, feeling better today?”

 

Thor just stares at him dully, breathing loudly through his mouth. His nose is encrusted with thick green snot and his half-closed eyes are rimmed with red. After a minute, Bucky says, “Guess not. Didja eat some breakfast? That’ll help you feel better. Put some gas in your tank.”

 

“I dod’t hab a tadk. I ab a widdoh boy, dot a fuck.”

 

Judging by the look on Bucky’s face, he has no idea what Thor just said, but he’s faking it like a pro. “Oh really?. . . Mmm, this milkshake looks yummy. Why doncha drink some of it?”

 

Thor’s lips clamp shut and his head swings back and forth. Rolling his eyes, Clint decides to let Bucky figure out on his own that his efforts are pointless. Clint has laundry to put down the chute and jam to wipe off the living room floor and _fucks_ to pick up and no fucks left to give.

 

He has picked up all the discarded clothes (not too many, considering he can’t get the kid to change into a clean outfit), and is trying to decide if it’s worth it to confiscate the cape long enough to put it through the laundry, when Bucky comes in, carrying Thor. The kid is tightly wrapped in the cape and his head is pillowed on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky’s got the back of his flesh hand on Thor’s forehead, and his eyebrows have a worry bump between them like Steve’s.

 

“Kid’s got a fever.”

 

“He runs warm, remember?” Clint says, getting down on his knees to scrub the jam off the floor. It’s dried on. He sprays it with a cleaning spray, but he doesn’t have much hope it will take it off. It’s probably going to leave a permanent stain on the carpet.

 

“He feels really hot.”

 

“Ok, maybe,” Clint says wearily, rubbing at the stain to no avail. Friday’s going to have to send up a cleaner because there’s no way he’s going to be able to get this shit off. “He’s got an ear infection. Doc put him on antibiotics.”

 

“He’s breathing funny,” says Bucky the non-parent, who has no idea about anything. Kids get sick all. the. time, and then they get over it. There’s no need to panic about a little upper respiratory infection.

 

“He had croup last night, which sounds awful but really isn’t a big deal. And his nose is stuffed up. He’s ok, Bucky.” Judging by the look on Bucky’s face, he’s not buying it, so Clint says, “Look, kids do this kind of thing. Spike a fever, cough up a lung, then the next day they’re running around like usual. He’ll be _fine_.” 

 

Bucky still doesn’t look convinced, but whatever. He’ll see tomorrow when Thor is turning somersaults off the sofa again. Shaking his head, Clint starts cleaning up the trucks. Over the sound of the toys hitting the box, he hears Bucky patting Thor’s back and murmuring softly to him.

 

“Sorry you’re sick, squirt. Soon as you feel better I’ll take you to the gym, ok?”

 

Thor makes a little whimpering noise.

 

“Yeah, it’s miserable being sick, huh? Stevie used to get sick all the time. He’d cough so hard he’d start pukin’ his guts out. Half the time didn’t even make it to the bathroom.”

 

Clint doesn’t hear any whimpering noise this time. He keeps throwing trucks into the box. He seriously does not recall owning this many trucks. Where did they all come from?

 

“Clint! CLINT!” Bucky suddenly shouts, and it’s serious-sounding enough that Clint scrambles to his feet. He finds Thor slumped over in Bucky’s arms, head hanging off Bucky’s metal shoulder, completely limp. His eyes are rolled back and his lips are blue. Bucky’s eyes are wide with panic. Ok, fine, this is ACTUALLY something to panic about.

 

“Friday, we need medical!” Clint yells to the ceiling, but Bucky cuts him off. 

 

“No, I can get him there faster.”

 

Friday’s voice, still as calm as ever, says, “I’ll call the elevators to this floor.”

 

Bucky’s already running out the door, holding Thor’s boneless body tightly in his arms. Clint can only see Thor’s bouncing hair over Bucky’s shoulder. “Let Dr. Cho know we’re coming,” Clint says to Friday, sprinting after him as quickly as his little legs can carry him. He’s no match for a supersoldier, of course, so he gets to the elevator just as the doors are closing and barely manages to squeeze in before they finish sliding shut. Maybe it’s his imagination, but the elevator seems to be moving quicker than usual. The ride passes in grim silence, the only sound being Thor’s rattly breathing. At least the kid is breathing, thank god, even if it sounds awful. Clint feels overwhelming guilt for not—doing what? Not taking Thor to the doc? He did do that, the day before yesterday, and it was just upper respiratory, common kid stuff. Clint doesn’t understand how he could have progressed from that to whatever _this_ is practically overnight.

 

Cho is waiting for them when they come running off the elevator, flanked by a gurney and a team of nurses. “Put him down here,” Cho directs Bucky, who seems disinclined to obey. He’s got his metal arm wrapped tightly around the kid’s back and his other hand is clutching a fistful of the cape. His face is hard, and his eyes are in _scary assassin-mode_. Shit. Anyone who tries to take that kid from him is gonna get hurt.

 

“Bucky!” Cho says sharply. Clint’s afraid Bucky’s going to attack, but her tone seems to snap him out of it. He blinks and looks around like he just noticed where he was. “Put him on the gurney so I can help him. Please.” Cho’s tone is a little softer now, but she’s still definitely not inviting any dissent. Luckily, Bucky nods and hurries to the gurney, where he lays the kid down as carefully as if he were a live grenade. Cho steps in with her stethoscope and listens for a second, then she’s saying scary shit like “tachycardia” and “arrhythmia” and “cardiac syncope.”

 

As Cho and her team whisk Thor off to the medical bay, Bucky’s eyes find Clint’s for a second and _shit_ , there’s another emotion to add to the scorecard—a brief burst of barely contained fury. Being on the receiving end of _that_ turns Clint’s knees to jelly, but just as quickly Bucky shuts it down. He breaks eye contact, turns and stalks off toward the stairs without another word, and Clint suddenly finds himself alone in the hallway, wondering where the heck it all went wrong.

 

 

 

Clint doesn’t know what else to do, so he sits in the waiting room with his head in his hands and just. . . waits. Bucky is mad at him, and Clint has a pretty good guess why: Bucky blames Clint for this, thinks he should have known, somehow, that Thor was sicker than he seemed. And even though Clint knows that there was nothing more he could have done, he can’t help but blame himself too.

 

The minutes tick past while Clint stares at the floor, listening for the door to open. No news is good news, right? The fact that Cho hasn’t come back through that door means they are still working on him. It’s not like he’s dead, right? She’d come out and tell him if the kid was dead, wouldn’t she?

 

He’s so hyperfocused on the door to the treatment room, waiting for it to open, that he’s not really aware of anything going on around him, until he realizes that someone has sat down beside him. Before he looks up, he catches a hint of jasmine. Natasha.

 

“Hey,” she says softly, bumping her knee against his.

 

“Hey.”

 

“You ok?”

 

Wow, he hadn’t realized he was near tears until she said that. The sympathy pushes him over the edge and he finds himself sniffling. “Yeah,” he rasps, dragging the back of his hand across his nose. Her hand slides onto his back. Dammit, she needs to knock it off with the comfort crap or he’s gonna melt into a puddle of tears. 

 

Clint hears a rustling sound on the other side and turns his head to find Sam sitting there. When he turns a little more he sees Wanda in the row behind and Bruce and Steve standing in the back. Steve’s arms are tightly folded and his jaw muscle is jumping. No Bucky.

 

While he is distracted, the door opens and Cho comes out. She’s got a mask over her face, but when she sees them all sitting there, her eyes crinkle up. Pulling her mask down, she says with a grin, “I see Thor’s parents are all here.” The grin fades a little as she scans the room. “Well, almost all of them.”

 

Clint rubs his sweaty hands on his pant legs and stands up. She wouldn’t be smiling if it were bad news, right? “How’s he doing?”

 

“Better. He was pretty dehydrated, but it’s easier to get a needle in if he’s unconscious. We’ve got fluids and a stronger antibiotic on board, so that should help.” Clint lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, but Cho’s not done. “His lungs are a bit crackly. I’m concerned about possible pneumonia.”

 

Clint feels a pang of guilt at that, because goddammit, Bucky was right about his breathing and he should’ve got the kid down here sooner. “His lungs were fine yesterday,” he protests. 

 

“Yes, they were. Whatever this is, it hit fast. We’re taking some samples to see if we can isolate the bacteria. He’s starting to come around a little if you want to go in and say hi.”

 

Everyone steps forward, but Cho holds up her hand. “Just Clint right now, ok? Don’t want to overwhelm him.”

 

As Clint walks past her, he says quietly, “If Bucky shows up, send him in, ok?”

 

“You got it.”

 

Thor looks impossibly tiny in the hospital bed, barely makes a ripple in the cape, which is draped over him like a funeral shroud. _God, don’t be so morbid_ , Clint chastises himself. It’s not over his face. He’s _not dead_. He’s _fine_. Or at least, he’s _going_ to be fine. He’s got an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, and all kinds of tubes and wires sticking out all over him. He’s wearing an oversized hospital gown, and one arm is wrapped in a sleeve-like bandage, probably hiding the I.V. so he doesn’t pull it out. 

 

“Cwint?” Thor squeaks out, his voice muffled from the oxygen mask. He reaches out one small trembling hand toward Clint.

 

“Yeah, buddy, I’m here.” Clint takes Thor’s clammy little hand and gently strokes the back with his thumb. “I’m here. Everything’s ok.”

 

Thor grips weakly at Clint’s finger as he looks around the room from under swollen eyelids. “Where am I?” he whispers. The oxygen must be helping because it sounds like his nose isn’t quite so stuffed up anymore.

 

“You’re in the medical wing. Dr. Cho is taking care of you.”

 

“Why?”

 

“You got really sick, pal.”

 

“Can I go home now?”

 

“No, you have to stay here so Dr. Cho can help you get better.”

 

Clint is expecting Thor will complain, or try to get up, but all he says is “Oh,” in a defeated little voice. That’s worse. That’s way worse. “Can you come here? I need to ‘mell you.” Thor awkwardly scooches over a little bit on the bed like he’s making room for Clint. He can’t move too far because he’s tethered by all the tubes and wires.

 

“You want me to get in the bed with you? I don’t know if there’s enough room.”

 

Thor pulls feebly at the cape. “Dere’s enough room. Pwease?” Those baby blue eyes peering over the top of the oxygen mask are so sweet and pitiful that Clint gives in. What else can he do? Holding the wires out of the way, he slips under the cape and curls up around Thor’s small body. Thor’s face is tucked into the hollow of his neck; Clint can feel the hard plastic of the oxygen mask pressing against his clavicle.

 

“I can’t ‘mell you, Cwint,” Thor mumbles. “Dis mas’ is in the way.”

 

“Here, let’s move it for a minute so you can try to smell me.” Clint loosens the mask enough to slip it over to the side, then Thor leans in and inhales noisily. “Can you smell good enough?”

 

“Yes. Can I wisten to your heart?”

 

“Sure, buddy.” There is a bit of rearranging of tubes and wires necessary for Thor to get in position to put his head on Clint’s chest. After a minute of silence, Thor pulls back again, frowning.

 

“I can’t hear it. Did your heart ‘top beating?”

 

“No, it’s still beating. I think your ears are just clogged up like your nose.”

 

The frown deepens. “I want Cai-you and Eh-mo to get out of my ears so I can hear!”

 

Clint laughs, which Thor obviously finds offensive. “Dr. Cho saw dem in dere,” he protests, “maybe she can get dem out.”

 

“She’s working on it. That’s what the medicine is supposed to do. Here, let’s try this.” Clint unbuttons the top few buttons on his shirt. “Put your hand against my chest. Then you’ll be able to feel my heart beating.”

 

Thor puts his clammy little hand against Clint’s chest, closes his eyes, and lays very still for several seconds. “Your heart is bumpy. I fink you should wet Heawer Cho wisten to dat to make sure it’s healfy. I don’t want you to get sick too.”

 

“That’s very sweet, buddy, but I think it’s fine.”

 

“Ok.” For at least another minute, Thor lays still with his hand against Clint’s chest. He’s so still that Clint thinks maybe he’s gone to sleep, until he pipes, “Cwint?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Can we go back to the farm?”

 

“That would be fun, huh? We can go after you feel better, ok?”

 

_We now pause this conversation for a coughing break._

 

Once Thor gets the coughing fit under control, he says, “I want to see Nafanyo, and Waura, and Wiwa, and Cooper eben dough he is a teenager and Gowiaf.”

 

“I’d like to see them too.”

 

“Nafanyo is my new brudder, right? I wike him.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“And Woki won’t be mad?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Ok. Can we do dat ‘mewwing counting fing?”

 

“You mean the senses countdown?”

 

“Yes.” Thor holds out his other hand, palm down, so Clint slips his under. This is going to be difficult if the kid can’t hear or smell, but apparently they are going to do it anyway. At least he can see.

 

“Ready?”

 

Thor nods. 

 

“Ok, big breath in.”

 

Thor drags in a noisy, wheezy breath, and says “Five” on the exhale. 

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

Clint says, “Heart monitor,” looking up at the machine that is counting out the rabbit-fast rhythm of Thor’s pulse. The beat is steady at least, not arrhythmic like it was when they first brought him in.

 

. . . Breathe. . . 

 

Thor’s turn. He says, “Uncuh Bucky!”

 

Huh?

 

Clint turns his head at an awkward angle to find Bucky standing framed in the doorway, with the bedraggled bear tucked under one arm. His face is back to its usual unreadable state.

 

“Hey, squirt.”

 

“Uncuh Bucky, come do the ‘mewwing fing wif us.”

 

“The what?”

 

“Senses countdown,” Clint clarifies, but Bucky still looks mystified.

 

“Come ober here,” Thor directs him, beckoning to Bucky. He takes a step closer to the bed and holds out the bear. Clint takes it and hands it to the kid, who is not so easily distracted. He tucks it down between them, then says, “Cwint, you wet Bucky put his hand on your udder hand.”

 

“Um. . .”

 

Thor’s eyes plead. Clint caves. He awkwardly rolls onto his back, moves the assorted wires and tubes out of the way, sticks out his other hand and says, “Ok, um, Bucky, put your hand on my hand.”

 

“Why?”

 

“It’s the ‘mewwing fing. You gotta put your hand on Cwint’s hand and count down.”

 

“Why?”

 

“You heard the kid, it’s the smelling thing.”

 

Bucky regards Clint skeptically. Clint rolls his eyes. “Just do it, all right?”

 

“You want me to. . . hold Clint’s hand?”

 

“Not hold it, just put your hand on top of mine.”

 

Bucky takes a step back. He’s not gonna do it, of course. Supersoldier assassins do NOT participate in mindfulness exercises.

 

“Pwease, Uncuh Bucky?”

 

Bucky does it. Dude is a complete marshmallow, despite his tough exterior. His flesh hand is cool and dry, and his fingertips are rough. Where their palms meet, Clint can feel the callouses at the bases of his fingers. When Clint moves his hand to align better, Bucky’s hand jerks away a little, like a reflex. Like he’s scared Clint is going to grab him. Clint holds his hand still, and almost immediately Bucky moves his hand so they are barely touching again, but he’s clearly _not_ relaxed.

 

“Why don’t you sit down?” Clint suggests.

 

Bucky does not sit.

 

“Pweeeease?”

 

Bucky sits. On the edge of his chair. Clint can feel his hand practically vibrating with nervous energy, even though the rest of him is completely still.

 

“Dat’s good. Ok, now breave.”

 

Bucky looks perplexed. “I’m already breathing.”

 

More coughing. This time Clint can feel the droplets of mucous hitting his neck. “No, you gotta breave in your ‘tomach.”

 

Bucky’s fingers twitch. “What the hell does that mean?”

 

Clint clarifies quickly before Bucky can pull away. “Put your hand on your stomach and take a deep breath.”

 

Bucky doesn’t say anything. Clint can’t really see from this angle, so he says, “Did you do it?”

 

“Yeah, I’m doing it.”

 

“We’re on five, so you gotta say somefing you see,” Thor informs him.

 

“Like what?”

 

“Something you see in the room,” Clint clarifies again.

 

This does. not. help. “Everything. I see everything.”

 

“Something specific.” Clint’s trying really hard to keep the exasperation out of his voice, but he’s not sure he’s succeeding.

 

“Like something that’s a threat?”

 

Clint jerks his head up and glares at Bucky. “God! Fucking hell, no! This is supposed to be a calming routine!”

 

“What does _fucking hell_ mean?” Thor’s reedy little voice pipes.

 

“Never mind,” Clint cuts in. “Bucky, say something you see quick before we accidentally introduce this kid to the whole urban dictionary.”

 

Bucky makes a little huffing noise. _Whatever, dude, just_ ** _do it_.** “Fine. lines.”

 

Clint doesn’t know what he means exactly but he’s going to let it pass in the interest of expediency. “Take another breath.”

 

“Was I supposed to be holding my breath that whole time?”

 

“No, it usually doesn’t take this long! Just breathe, ok?”

 

“I’m breathing!”

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

“Wights,” Thor says. That’s five things, right? Close enough.

 

“Ok, now four is something you feel.”

 

Bucky’s hand twitches again. _Don’t you dare take off, buster._ “Like. . . emotions?”

 

“No, like physical sensations. Take a breath first.”

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

Bucky says, “Hungry.” Ok, that’s a feeling, sure. Why not?

 

. . . Breathe. . . 

 

Thor says, “Poky fing in my arm. What is dat?”

 

“Um nothing, it’s fine,” Clint reassures him quickly. God forbid the kid find a NEEDLE in his arm.

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

Clint focuses on physical sensations. He feels. . . thirsty, and uncomfortable, and awkward, and itchy, but mostly too warm. “Sweaty,” he says. This is not really helping. He feels more uptight, not less.

 

Breathe. “Ok, that’s enough. Next is three. That’s for things we hear. I’ll go first.” 

 

Breathe. Clint says, “beeping.”

 

Breathe. Bucky says, “coffee maker.” Clint twists his head around to squint at him.

 

“There’s no coffee maker in here.”

 

“There’s one in the lobby.”

 

“It’s supposed to be something you can hear.”

 

“I can hear that.”

 

Ok fine _whatever_. “Thor, your turn.”

 

“I can’t hear anyfing. I got Cai-you and Eh-mo in my ears.”

 

“Right, I forgot. Ok, on to two. That’s for something you smell. Take three deep breaths first, then say something you smell. I’ll go first. Close your eyes.”

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

Clint smells Bucky’s sweat and unwashed kid and disinfectant, but he catches a hint of Jasmine. It’s probably just left over from where Nat put her hand on his back. “Jasmine. Bucky, you’re next.”

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

. . . BREATHE. . .

 

. . . BREATHE. . . 

 

Bucky doesn’t say anything, even though it’s his turn. Both Thor and Bucky’s hands have gone soft and heavy, and their breathing has gotten louder and slower. Clint cracks open an eye to find Thor curled up with his hand under his cheek, sound asleep. When he turns the other way, he sees Bucky slumped down in his chair, head lolling off to the side, asleep too. 

 

Clint hears a noise and cranks around further to find Nat leaning against the doorway, with that stupid gooey heart-melty grin plastered all over her stupid face. God, the shit Clint has to put up with. . .

 

He carefully re-adjusts the oxygen mask over Thor's face, extricates himself from the bed, tiptoes around Bucky, and meets her at the door.

 

“You guys are _adorable_.”

 

“Shut. up.”

 

She's still gazing at the kid, and her grin twists down at the corner, goes from sweet to bittersweet. She’s got a little pucker between her eyebrows that Clint hadn’t noticed before. “What’s up?” he asks.

 

“Cho wants to talk to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Except, we can blame Disney, can't we? They're the ones approving the scripts.


	29. 'Powogies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Cho assures Clint this is NOT HIS FAULT and no one blames him. This is not exactly true.

* * *

 

Clint finds Dr. Cho in the little conference room next to her office. Steve is already there, sitting in one of the hard chairs with his back ramrod straight and his arms folded. There is another chair pulled up next to him that Clint presumes is for him. Great. He pauses in the doorway because he has a sudden sense of deja vu—this room, this set-up. . . it reminds him of when he and Laura (six months pregnant with Cooper) were called in to the ob-gyn’s office because they found a “spot” on the baby’s kidney on an ultrasound. The fact that it later turned out to be nothing did not relieve the trauma Clint still feels when a doctor invites him into her office.

 

“Come on in, Clint,” Cho says, gesturing to the chair. Clint nods to Steve (oh god that bump) and sits in the chair, leaning away enough to keep his own personal space. Steve’s shoulders take up an ungodly amount of room, especially when he has his arms crossed and his muscles are especially bulgy.

 

“What’s going on?” Clint says, looking back and forth between Cho and Steve. One of them needs to say something, preferably now, because Clint’s mind is very busy filling in the blanks and the picture that’s emerging is giving him heart palpitations.

 

“Did Bucky show back up?” Cho asks.

 

“He’s asleep,” Clint informs her shortly. “What’s going on?”

 

Cho taps the screen on her StarkPad and clears her throat. “We have some of the tests back on Thor, and I’m a bit concerned about the results.”

 

She taps the screen a few more times. Clint is about to crawl out of his skin. All his nerves are jangling. His knee starts bouncing up and down and he can’t make it stop. “Why?”

 

“Well,” Cho starts, then launches into a bunch of medical mumbo-jumbo so dense and impenetrable that Clint can’t make heads or tails of it. She might as well be speaking Swahili. He catches the word “immunodeficiency” and his brain latches onto it. Deficiency, like something is wrong with his immune system? Why? Is it somehow Clint’s fault for exposing him to Nathaniel’s cold? Guilt squeezes his chest and causes his guts to start churning. He isn’t even listening anymore, because it’s not making any sense anyway. His brain is screaming at him: YOUR FAULT! YOUR FAULT!

 

“Clint? Are you understanding this?” Cho asks, not unkindly.

 

“Not really,” he confesses. “There’s something wrong with his immune system?”

 

“Not wrong, just missing.”

 

“Missing?”

 

“He’s severely lacking in antibodies that would help him fight off infections and viruses. If you think about it, it makes sense, considering he’s never been exposed to any human diseases before. It’s like when Europeans traveled to the Americas for the first time, and met up with people who had never been exposed to European diseases. For Thor, encountering a simple cold virus challenged his weakened immune system to the point where it was unable to fight off opportunistic bacteria, so he ended up with pneumonia.”

 

“But he’s looking a little better, right? He woke up and was talking and everything.”

 

Cho makes a movement with her head that is part shake and part nod. Clint doesn’t know what the hell it means. “We gave him oxygen and fluids for the dehydration which treated the symptoms, but it doesn’t touch the cause, which is the pneumonia. I’ve had him on a broad-spectrum antibiotic, but so far I haven’t seen any response.”

 

“So this is from the cold?” Clint chokes out. _YOUR FAULT YOUR FAULTYOURFAULT._

 

“It started with the cold, but Clint—you couldn’t have known. I didn’t know either, because I didn’t do any bloodwork when you first brought him in. If I had, we would have found out about this right away.”

 

Clint rubs his sweaty palms on his knees. “So what do we do? Can you. . . fix this?”

 

“The first line of defense is antibiotics to help fight off the infection, which we’ve already been doing. I’m switching him to a more focused antibiotic now that we know what bacteria we are fighting. The next step is immunoglobin therapy, which we are starting now. Then we just have to wait and see how he responds.”

 

Clint’s heart gives a lurch. He can hear what she’s not saying, and it’s making his stomach hurt. “You mean there’s a chance he won’t respond?”

 

“I never know how Thor, even grown-up Thor, is going to respond to any treatment I’ve ever tried. I gave him fentanyl one time and it did absolutely nothing, but Melatonin knocked him out for over twenty-four hours. Tylenol gave him a rash all over his body. And you already know the Cradle doesn’t work on him.”

 

“What about stem cells?” Steve speaks up, holding up his phone. “I was just reading about it being used to treat immune system disorders.” _Dr. Steve Rogers, everybody. Graduate of the school of WebMD._

 

Cho shakes her head. “The donor has to be a close match. He’s not human, and there’s no one left of his people to match him with.”

 

Clint wants desperately for her to say she’s got the cure, just do these three steps and the kid will be back to his bouncy old self again, but she _won’t_. “So we just have to wait?” he says, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. 

 

“I know that’s hard to do, Clint, and I’m sorry. I wish I could just hand you the answer, but we have to see how he responds and what his body does on its own too. The fact that he’s not exactly human is both a blessing and a curse. His body has some pretty amazing healing properties on its own. We just have to see if it can kick a virus and bacteria it’s never encountered before.”

 

Clint has to get out of there before he explodes, so he mumbles a _thank you_ to Cho and takes off, down the hall back toward Thor’s room but he has to stop outside the door. He can’t go in there right now. What’s he going to say to Bucky? He can’t, he just can’t. Let Steve tell him that they don’t even know if the kid is going to get better, because Clint _can’t_.

 

He turns on his heel and heads the other way, past the elevators to the stairs. His feet carry him down to the lab. He stands in the doorway and surveys the room vacantly. The only people in the lab are Tony and Vision, who both have their backs to him working on something on a back counter and don’t notice him. The counter is cluttered with papers numbered in Tony’s untidy scrawl. Several cages are lined up on the floor under the counter, but Clint can’t see what if anything is in them. On another counter, Steve’s shield stands propped up by metal blocks, with the stone, standing upright on a silver disk, leaning against it. Scorch marks mar the front of the shield, but it doesn’t look permanently damaged. Whatever the hell is happening here, it doesn’t look like progress. Clint backs out slowly.

 

This time his feet take him out of the building, into a cool, cloudy afternoon. He’s not really paying attention where he’s going, until he hears children laughing. Then he looks up and finds himself at the playground at Central Park, and in front of him is the playground where he took Thor however many weeks ago. It’s full of children running and playing, which strikes Clint as completely unfair.

 

The bench he sat on before is open, so he sits and leans forward with his chin in his hands, and tries not to think about little Thor lying still and silent in a hospital bed instead of playing noisily. It’s not fair and it’s all Clint’s fault, no matter what Dr. Cho says. And now Clint’s gotta go back there and tell Bucky what she said, and then Bucky’s gonna get furious and clam up again, and their friendship, such as it was, will be over. Welp, they’ve had a nice run, right?

 

While he’s sitting there feeling sorry for himself, his phone buzzes with a text. It’s Laura, and he doesn’t feel like talking to her, but he looks at the text anyway. 

 

_How’s Thor?_

 

**Worse. He ended up passing out this morning. We took him to Dr. Cho. She says his immune system is messed up, can’t fight off human germs**

 

_Oh my god. Nathaniel’s cold. . . I’m so sorry_.

 

**Yeah**

 

_You couldn’t have known. You know that, right? It’s not your fault_

 

**I know** , Clint replies, even though he doesn’t know that. He’s not going to burden Laura with the guilt that is weighing him down. 

 

_Have Tony and Bruce made any progress with the fix?_

 

**Not much. They’ve tried a few experiments, but they keep coming out backwards.**

 

_Backwards how?_

 

Clint is typing up a response, something along the lines of _I don’t understand it_ , when he’s interrupted by his phone ringing. Bucky? Bucky Barnes is calling him?

 

He hits the button to accept the call, and before he can even say hello, Bucky cuts in with, “Where the fuck are you?”

 

Clint is instantly on alert. “I took a walk. What’s going on?”

 

“Kid had a seizure.”

 

Now he’s up on his feet and moving. “Is he ok?”

 

“Don’t know. Cho kicked me out. Said I wasn’t helpful.”

 

“You were screaming swear words at her, Buck,” comes Steve’s voice from the background. “What did you expect?”

 

“Just get the fuck back here now.”

 

“On my way.”

 

* * *

 

By the time Clint gets back to the tower, all the excitement is over. The door is cracked open to Thor’s room, and from the doorway Clint can see Thor’s profile, eyes closed, face slack. There is an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, and a washcloth folded over his forehead, probably to bring the fever down.  Bucky has his back to the door, and he’s hunched over, head down. He’s holding Thor’s little hand; his giant metal thumb gently strokes the backs of Thor’s dimpled fingers. 

 

Clint eases his way into the room quietly, but not quite quietly enough because Bucky’s head comes up. “‘Bout fucking time,” he mutters without turning around.

 

“I was in Central Park,” Clint explains, “I ran all the way back. How’s he doing?”

 

Bucky shrugs. “Dunno.”

 

“How high was his fever?”

 

“Dunno. Nobody tells me shit.”

 

“But it looks like they’re trying to bring down the fever, right? Is that what caused his seizure?”

 

Just a shrug this time. Goddammit, Clint needs information! “Well, who does know, then??”

 

Now Bucky finally turns around. His eyebrows are straight lines and his mouth is twisted into a scowl. “I don’t know, all right? I don’t know nothing! You go and meet with the doc without me—“

 

“You were asleep!”

 

“Coulda woke me up. I always get left outta everything! People just go off and make decisions and don’t even consult me—”

 

“I tried to include you! I told Dr. Cho to let you in! She wasn’t going to let anyone in the room but I asked her to let you in. I was going to tell you what she said when I got back.”

 

“Yeah? Then what did she say?”

 

“Steve didn’t tell you?”

 

Bucky leans in and flings his arms out, causing Clint to take a step back. “I told ya, nobody tells me shit!”

 

“Uncuh Bucky,” comes Thor’s croaky, muffled voice from the bed, and suddenly they both forget what they were arguing about. Bucky’s scowl drops as he immediately turns back to the bed.

 

“Heya, squirt,” Bucky says, leaning over the kid with a soft expression on his face. Thor’s hand reaches up and tugs weakly at the mask. “You want that off?”

 

Thor gives a half-nod, so Bucky moves the oxygen mask off to the side. Thor whispers, “Uncuh Bucky, you hafta ‘powogize to Cwint.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

“‘Cuz you were yewwing at him.”

 

Bucky blinks. He glances at Clint, a little uncertainly, then back at the kid. “. . . I didn’t yell at him,” he says after a moment.

 

“Yes you did. Say sorry. Pwease.”

 

Bucky glances back at Clint again, lips pressed together in a mulish expression. It’s painfully obvious that he doesn’t want to disappoint the kid, but it’s just as obvious that he _does not want to apologize_. Like he thinks it’s going to cause physical pain. Well, Clint’s been married over seventeen years. He’s had plenty of experience apologizing to keep the peace. He knows it doesn’t hurt, so he’ll do it, even though he’s not the one who was yelling.

 

“Hey, buddy, it was actually my fault,” Clint puts in. Bucky pulls back and watches him warily like he’s expecting a trap. “So, I’m sorry, Bucky. I shouldn’t have left you out, ok?”

 

Bucky continues to eye him suspiciously, but doesn’t say anything, so Clint keeps going. “Ok? You forgive me? We’re square?”

 

“. . . Yeah, fine,” Bucky mumbles, turning back to the kid. “You ok with that?”

 

“Yes. We are famiwy, and my mother said famiwy are ‘posta wuv each udder.” The kid pauses to cough weakly. “Uncuh Bucky,” he gasps, “give Cwint a hug.”

 

“Uh. . .”

 

“Maybe later, ok?” Clint puts in hastily.

 

“Ok. My head hurts,” Thor says. He tries to reach for his head but his hand is tethered by the I.V. and he can’t reach it. Bucky pushes back his sweaty hair and lays a hand on his forehead.

 

“Yeah? You feel pretty warm. Did it just start hurting?” 

 

Thor nods his head a little and winces. “Turn the wights down pwease.”

 

“I’ve got it,” Clint says. He flips one of the switches off, dimming the lights. “Is that better?”

 

The kid gives a tiny head shake, and this time his knees come up like he’s in pain. Maybe Clint should turn off the other bank of lights, but they’re really not that bright. It shouldn’t be hurting him that much. Thor opens his mouth like he’s trying to say something, so Bucky leans in a little closer. But instead of speaking, Thor suddenly pukes, all over Bucky, and the cape, and the bed. Clint runs to the door and shouts for Dr. Cho, but to his credit, Bucky doesn’t pull away. He just takes the corner of the cape and starts gently wiping the vomit off Thor’s face.

 

“Sorry, Bucky,” Thor whispers.

 

“It’s ok, squirt,” Bucky says as he wipes the folds of Thor’s ear. “It’s ok. I’ve had worse. Stevie used to upchuck on me all the time.” He’s working on mopping up the vomit pooled on Thor’s chest when an alarm starts going off. “Hey. Hey, you still with me, Thor? Thor!” Bucky shouts. Thor’s eyes have slid mostly shut and his hand hangs limply off the side of the bed.

 

Cho comes in at a run, with a couple of nurses on her heels. She elbows her way around Bucky, who steps back, hands clasped behind his back. He’s gone observant again. The nurses starts taking vitals while Cho checks machines and adjusts equipment and taps on her StarkPad. Clint  is trying to see if Thor is awake, but a nurse’s back is in his way, so he moves to the left where he can get a better view of Thor’s profile. His eyes are closed and his chest, now bare where they’ve pulled back the cape and gown, is barely moving.

 

“Temp 107,” one of the nurses calls. “Thor? Thor, wake up, honey.” She pats his cheek but he doesn’t wake up. Another nurse pushes past Clint carrying an armload of icepacks that they start tucking in around Thor’s still body.

 

Leaving the nurses still resetting machines, Cho comes over to Clint. She’s got her eyes on her StarkPad, but when she finally looks up, she says, “Where did Bucky go?”

 

“Right over—“ Clint turns his head and discovers that Bucky has disappeared. “He was right there just a minute ago,” he says, “Sorry. What’s going on with Thor?”

 

“Ok. Well, I’m concerned about that fever, but he doesn’t respond well to Tylenol and I’m afraid to give him anything stronger.”

 

“Was the seizure related to the fever?”

 

“That’s our guess at the moment. I want to do a head CT in a few minutes.”

 

“He said his head was hurting.”

 

Cho makes a note on her StarkPad. “Just now?”

 

“A couple of minutes ago. And the lights were hurting his eyes, even after I turned them down.”

 

Her head comes up, and for just a second, Clint sees a flicker of recognition in her eyes. That means something, but what? And how serious is it really? She covers it quickly, but Clint’s stomach starts doing flip-flops. “Ok, that’s good information, thanks,” she says, professional mask firmly back in place. “We’re going to take him up to CT now. It’ll probably take at least an hour.”

 

“Can I come in with him?”

 

“No, I’m sorry. You might as well go get something to eat and rest for a little while, Clint. I’ll call you when we’re done.”

 

 

 

Clint goes back to his quarters thinking he’ll get a bite to eat, but the first thing he sees when he opens the door is the toys that are still scattered around the room. His hands start automatically picking them up. He’s not even really paying attention to what he’s doing. He’s just numb, until he looks down at his hand and realizes he’s holding the little truck that Nathaniel gave Thor as they were leaving the farm. It’s nothing special, just a generic red pick-up with a yellow stripe, but Thor loves it and here it is abandoned on the floor, maybe never to be played with again and suddenly Clint has to sit down. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. Thor’s going to be all right, he tells himself sternly. The kid will bounce back from this just like he has everything else and he’ll be FINE. So Clint needs to get up and eat something and brush his teeth and take a nap so he’ll be good to go when the kid needs him again, but he doesn’t. He just sits on the floor with the little truck clutched tightly in his hand until it leaves imprints on his palm.

 

 

It’s a knock at the door that finally gets him off his butt. Still carrying the little truck, he pulls open the door to find Bucky, arms tightly folded, covered in sweat. Seriously, his face is dripping and his shirt is soaked all down the front. Bucky stares silently at something over Clint’s shoulder, and Clint gapes back.

 

“Where’ve you been?” Clint asks after an awkward pause. Bucky’s jaw muscle is jumping from grinding his teeth.

 

“I went for a run. It’s what I do when. . .”

 

When what? Bucky goes back to staring over Clint’s shoulder and doesn’t finish the sentence, so Clint finally says, “Want to come in?”

 

Bucky rocks forward on his toes, but doesn’t come in. Oookay. “Why are you here?” Clint asks.

 

“. . . I’m sorry,” Bucky grunts. Clint can’t quite believe his ears. Bucky just. . . apologized? Why?

 

“Uh, sorry for what?” Clint says.

 

“For yelling at you. Like the kid said.”

 

“Oh! Well, I’m sorry for leaving you out of things. I didn’t mean to and I’ll try to do better.”

 

Bucky makes eye contact for the first time. He looks a little startled. “People are always leaving me out of things. Well, mostly it’s Stevie.”

 

“Steve leaves you out of things?”

 

“He keeps making decisions for me and I hate it,” Bucky confesses. “He’s all, _You need more protein—here, drink this disgusting protein shake. It’s got powdered liver in it,_ or _That movie is too scary. Let’s watch a documentary on the Art of Design instead_.”

 

Clint chuckles. “Have you tried telling him you want to make your own decisions?”

 

“I already told you, I can’t talk to him about shit like that.”

 

“All right, I’ll leave it up to you. So, you apologized like Thor told you to. Want to do the other thing he told you to do?”

 

Bucky frowns at Clint warily. “What was that?”

 

“Want to hug it out?” He holds out his arms, but Bucky takes a step back, out of the doorway.

 

“Don’t make it weird, man,” Bucky says. He folds his arms and shifts from foot to foot uncomfortably.

 

Clint puts his hands up. “Ok, fine. I won’t tell him if you don’t.”

 

Bucky nods. He continues to shift foot to foot, but he doesn’t leave, so that must mean he wants something else. So why doesn’t he just fucking _ask_? Clint thought they were past this, now that they are such good pals and all, but here’s Bucky still reticent to say what he wants. No wonder Steve makes all the decisions. “Um. . . Do you want to come in now?”

 

“No.” He _still_ doesn’t leave.

 

“Ooookay. Did you. . . need something else?”

 

“. . . Yeah.” Bucky looks at the floor, and the wall, and the open doorway behind Clint, and the light. What the hell does he want? Just _say_ it, man!. . . Oh!

 

“Do you. . . want to know what Dr. Cho said?”

 

“Yeah.” He says it super-casual, like he doesn’t really care one way or the other. Ha! Clint can see through his act now. So now, Clint has to tell him, even though thinking about the reason Thor is sick makes Clint want to vomit. Dammit, why couldn’t Steve have told him? That way Bucky could have got all the punching and swearing out of his system before Clint had to deal with him. Well, here goes nothing. 

 

“She. . .um. . . she said it’s his immune system. It doesn’t have any antibodies for human germs, so he’s not able to fight off viruses..” Viruses that _you_ exposed him to, his brain reminds him. Thank you, brain, very helpful. Now shut up. 

 

Bucky doesn’t say anything, so Clint continues. “Once his system was under attack, it was too weak to keep bacteria out. That’s how he ended up with pneumonia.”

 

“So is he gonna get better now?”

 

“Well, she doesn’t know. She’s got him on a better antibiotic, but she doesn’t know how his system will respond. Since he’s not human, his body’s not. . . predictable.”

 

“Oh.”

 

So far so good, right? Bucky hasn’t hauled off and punched Clint yet. Ok, now just move on to a different topic. . .

 

“Where did he get the virus to begin with?”

 

GUILT GUILT GUILT (shut up, brain!) “My son had a cold.”

 

Bucky’s eyes go hard around the edges and his jaw tightens. Clint can hear the soft snick of his metal fingers opening and closing. He doesn’t say anything, but this time he doesn’t have to. Clint can read it in his face and posture: BLAME. Of course Bucky blames Clint. Who else's fault could it be? 

 

* * *

 

_Text from Bruce_

_Test #26_

 

There is a picture attached, of a tiny baby bunny, looking surprisingly healthy albeit exhausted, nestled in Bruce’s palm. 

 

**Looks good!**

 

_It started out bigger_ , Bruce texts back.

 

**Isn’t that a little backwards?**

 

_I’m aware of this. We’re working on it. I convinced Tony to switch to Guinea pigs for the next set of trials._

 

**Why?**

 

_They don’t scream_

 

* * *

 

_Text from Cho_

_Can you come back to the infirmary please?_

 

Clint, who is halfway undressed to take a shower, quickly starts throwing his clothes back on while he grabs for his phone to text back, **Why?**

 

_It’s not an emergency! I need your help with something. Bring Bucky too please_

 

Not an emergency? What the hell, woman! Don’t scare a guy like that! Clint decides to skip the shower and get dressed anyway because it must be somewhat urgent if she’s texting him to come back. Now how to get ahold of Bucky? Probably a text is best. He’s unlikely to answer a call from Clint right now anyway (GUILT GUILT GUILT).

 

**Cho wants us to come back to the infirmary. It’s not an emergency but she needs our help for something.**

 

Clint keeps getting dressed while he waits for a response, which is slow in coming. He’s buttoning his shirt when his phone finally buzzes.

 

_What for_

 

**She didn’t say.**  

 

There’s no response for more than a minute. Clint finishes getting dressed and puts his shoes on while he watches his screen, waiting for it to light up with a response. Finally he decides to follow up with **Will you come?**

 

_Im already there. where are you_

 

Good grief, Bucky!

 

* * *

 

Turns out Cho wants them to help her give the kid a lumbar puncture. Clint thinks he’s gonna be sick to his stomach, because he’s had one of those, years ago when he came down with some mysterious virus and they wanted to “rule out” meningitis. Fucking poked a big-ass needle into his SPINE so they could make sure he didn’t have some virus they already knew he didn’t have anyway. Fuck. They can’t do this to the kid. They just can’t.

 

But then Clint remembers how Cho’s head jerked up when he told her the kid’s eyes were sensitive to the light. And the fevers. And the seizure. And Thor vomiting all over. And the fact that his immune system is fucked so he can’t fight off bacteria. Shit.

 

“What’s a lumbar puncture?” Bucky asks.

 

“I need to take a sample of his cerebro-spinal fluid to check for infection,” Cho clarifies, which doesn’t appear to help at all.

 

“Why do you need us?”

 

Clint knows why. It took three big guys to hold him down while the doc stuck the needle into his spine, and he wasn’t even trying to fight. It just hurt so bad there was no way he coulda held still on his own. Shit, Bucky had trouble even holding Thor still so they could give him medicine. How’s he gonna react when the kid is screaming and writhing in pain?

 

“The procedure can be. . . uncomfortable.” She is being way too diplomatic. A spinal tap hurts like hell.

 

“So you want me to hold his hand?”

 

“Um. No. I need you to hold him still.” After she sees the shell-shocked look on Bucky’s face, she hastily follows it up with, “If you’re not comfortable with that, I can have a nurse do it. I just thought he might be calmer if he sees a familiar face.”

 

Bucky’s jaw muscle is jumping. His eyes cut to the door, and Clint is pretty sure he’s doing to bolt, but he doesn’t. “Is he awake?”

 

“He’s semi-conscious, but he’s likely to wake up during the procedure.”

 

Clint notices she skips over the part about WHY he would wake up.

 

“It will be comforting to him to see a familiar face,” Cho continues. Comforting? He’ll be too busy screaming to even know who’s holding him down.

 

“Ok, we’ll do it,” Bucky says, not even sparing a glance Clint’s way. See, now looks who’s making decisions for both of them? Maybe Clint would like to make his own decision. Oh, who is Clint kidding, of course he’s gonna do it. He can’t let Bucky and Thor go through this alone.

 

* * *

 

Cho makes them scrub their hands, gown up, and put on masks before the procedure. Then she takes them into a bright white room where Thor is lying curled up on his side apparently sleeping. No Bucky Bear, no cape, he’s covered only with a thin sheet, and he’s shivering. Clint can see the sheet shaking.

 

“Ok, Bucky, you hold his shoulders,” Cho says from behind her mask, “and Clint take his legs.”

 

“Hold him how?” Bucky asks warily.

 

“We need him to stay curled up like he is. Clint’s going to hold his knees bent up in the fetal position, and Bucky, you’re going to hold his head toward his chest, ok?”

 

“Ok.”

 

Bucky wraps his flesh arm around Thor's shoulders while Clint pulls Thor's knees in against his chest. As soon as they are both ready, Cho folds back the sheet and opens the gown. The kid’s lower back is stained yellow-orange from the iodine. First she uses a little needle to inject an anesthetic. Thor whimpers a little but barely moves. So far so good. 

 

“See, that’s not so bad, huh, squirt?” Bucky says to Thor, who doesn’t respond. Then Cho pulls out the big-ass needle, and Bucky’s eyes go wide above the mask. His face turns pale and beads of sweat appear at his temple.

 

“Ready?” Cho asks, then she doesn’t even wait for an answer before she sticks the needle in the kid’s spine. He starts twisting and whimpering louder. 

 

“Stop, you’re hurting him!” Bucky growls. His knuckles have turned white from tension even though his grip on Thor's shoulders is light.

 

“I’m sorry, I have to. Hold him still, we’re almost done.” Cho says in a voice that’s way too calm. She pulls back the plunger and the reservoir fills up with cloudy, yellowish liquid. Clint knows it’s not supposed to look like that. He’s not sure what it means, but CSF is supposed to be clear.

 

* * *

 


	30. 'Nuggoh me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor gets worse. Tony and Bruce finally realize they should've listened more closely to Loki.

* * *

 

Of course the test comes back positive for Meningitis, because apparently the Fates have decided Thor hasn’t been through enough messed-up shit. Clint just has to google it, because that’s what parents do at one in the morning, sitting alone in his way-too-quiet apartment, scaring himself half to death reading lists of symptoms and “complications”. Such a dry, boring word to describe such horrific effects: hearing loss, gait disturbances, shock, DEATH. Your kid will most likely die or be maimed for life, and they call it a complication. No, a complication is losing your lunch money, or overwatering your houseplants, not kidney failure and brain damage.

 

* * *

 

The rest of that day, they try to get the kid to wake up enough to eat, but it’s a tough sell. Bucky nukes some dragon nuggets and holds out one dipped in a generous amount of ketchup. Thor’s little tongue appears and licks off a tiny bit of ketchup, but he doesn’t take a bite. 

 

Steve brings in cherries that he must have paid twelve bucks a pound for, but Thor won’t even open his mouth, even though they are all making “yum” noises and exclaiming how good they taste. 

 

Sam’s Oreo milkshake gets them one tiny swallow, which they all celebrate, but that’s it. After a few minutes, Bucky ends up chugging the rest, then stands frozen with his eyes closed and his hand on his head.

 

“What’s the matter, Bucky?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Ice cream headache?”

 

“No.”

 

 

 

 

“Is there anything you want to eat?” Clint asks Thor, when none of the rest of their ideas work. His swollen eyes open to slits. After a moment, he gives a tiny nod. “What is it?” Bucky and Sam lean in, waiting.

 

“‘. . .’Ot-tar’.”

 

“. . . Pop-tart?”

 

Another tiny nod. Yes! “I’ll go make you some right now!” Clint exclaims. He runs all the way to his quarters, toasts up two s’mores pop-tarts, and hurries back. Thor takes three bites before he’s asleep again. Bucky and Steve finish off the rest of them, and then Sam looks so forlorn that Clint goes back to his quarters and toasts up the rest of the Pop-tarts in the box. 

 

* * *

 

 

The next few days are kind of a blur. The kid sleeps most of the time. He would almost look peaceful if it weren’t for the little jerks and muffled whimpering sounds he makes without waking up. Clint sits in the “easy chair” (ha!) next to the bed until the thin padding moulds to the shape of his butt. Bucky slumps in a folding chair on the other side of the bed, metal arm folded across his chest and flesh hand resting on Thor’s. He is silent and unmoving. Clint considers trying to talk to him, but every time he opens his mouth, his overwhelming guilt shuts it again.

 

Occasionally someone, usually Nat or Sam, appears at his elbow and sends him off to shower or eat or take a nap. They try to get Bucky to leave too but he just growls at them until they give up. 

 

After they escort him out, Clint goes back to his lonely quarters but his attempts to sleep are either fruitless, or interrupted by nightmares, usually of Thor screaming while Clint searches a maze of tunnels trying to find him. He always hurries back to the medical wing because he doesn’t want the kid to wake up and be scared without him. Of course, Bucky is always there, but Bucky does not know how to 'nuggle properly.

 

On the evening of the third day, Cho appears at Thor’s bedside carrying a little red case. Both Clint and Bucky sit up and watch her as she opens the case and starts laying out equipment. 

 

“I’m going to put in an NG tube,” she informs them helpfully. This is not helpful.

 

“What the f—what is that?” Bucky asks with a brief glance at the kid’s sleeping face.

 

“Naso-gastric. It’s a feeding tube.”

 

Bucky leans in, carefully watching her every move. Instead of telling him to piss off, which is what Clint would have done, Cho moves a little to her left so he can get a better view. “Why does he need that?”

 

“It’s for nutrition, so he can maintain weight.”

 

“But this is temporary, right? He’s gonna wake up and start eating pretty soon, right?”

 

“Well. . .” Cho says, glancing over at Clint, “We hope so, but in the meantime, he needs calories.”

 

“Is that gonna hurt him?”

 

“No, it shouldn’t hurt. When he doesn’t need it anymore, we can take it out. Ok?”

 

“Why you asking me? Is there a choice?”

 

“Bucky,” Clint cuts in, “just let her do her job.”

 

“I never said she couldn’t,” Bucky says sullenly. He sits back in his chair and doesn’t interfere further, but his eyes follow her hands as she finishes setting out equipment. She takes a thin, flexible tube and loops it over Thor’s ear. When she leans over the kid to start inserting the tube, he moves his head a little and makes a gagging sound. Bucky is there in an instant, his enormous metal hand gently stroking back Thor’s greasy hair.

 

“It’s ok, pal. She’ll be done in a minute,” Bucky whispers. Thor quiets, but Bucky keeps murmuring, “It’s ok, it’s ok. . .” Clint’s not sure whether he’s trying to reassure the kid, or himself. While Cho tests the position of the tube, Bucky rests his nose against Thor’s head. After a second, he pulls back, nose wrinkled in disgust.

 

“God, he stinks.”

 

Well, what did Bucky expect? How long has it been since the kid had a bath anyway? Five days already laying here in this bed, and his last bath was several days before that, maybe when they were at the farm? Clint doesn’t really remember. At least he’s not wearing the filthy Hawkeye jammies and Bucky shirt anymore. . . Hmm, speaking of those, where are they? He was wearing them when they brought him down here, and Clint hasn’t seen them since.

 

“You can wash his hair with dry shampoo,” Cho says without looking up. She gestures toward the counter, so Clint, who is sitting closest (near the door, so he can escape if it gets to be too much) reaches over and picks up the shampoo. Bucky holds out his hand and Clint tosses him the bottle. Bucky pops opens the lid to the bottle with his flesh hand and sniffs it.

 

“God, that’s worse,” he complains. “Smells like grandma shit the bed.” Cho, still bent over testing the tube, giggles. 

 

“Let me smell,” Clint says. Bucky tosses the bottle back and Clint sniffs it. “Yeah, I’d say definite floral notes underscored with a hint of feces.” Quickly capping the bottle, he sets it back on the counter. “What do you want him to smell like?” he asks Bucky.

 

“Like how he usually smells. Lemons and shit. Well, not shit, but. . . you know.”

 

Clint nods knowingly. “Oh yeah, baby shampoo. That’s the bomb. But we would need water for that kind.”

 

“You can give him a bath,” Cho suggests. Bucky’s eyes light up.

 

“We can? What about all those wires?”

 

“We can unhook most of them temporarily. A bath would do him good, might help bring the fever down. Although I’d feel better if one of you were in there with him to keep his head above water.”

 

Oh, never mind then, because it’s not like Bucky’s gonna get in a bathtub with the kid while Clint washes his hair—Oh, Bucky is getting up. Yeah, the doc scared him away. After Bucky clumps out of the room without another word. Cho raises her eyebrows at Clint.

 

“Did I say something wrong?” Cho asks as she tapes the end of the tube to Thor’s cheek.

 

Clint shrugs. “I think he’s just upset Thor can’t get up.”

 

Not five minutes later, Bucky comes back into the room wearing only a swimsuit that has to be Steve’s—one leg is blue with stars and the other is red and white striped. It hangs a little loose on him, but he’s got it cinched up at the waist.

 

“So. . . does this mean you’ll get in the tub with him?” Clint asks.

 

Bucky just raises his eyebrows and spreads his hands like, _duh_. Ooookay. Cho, who has all her equipment packed up now, starts unhooking wires. She’s obviously trying not to look at Bucky’s bare chest but she’s got a little grin tugging up the corner of her mouth as she works. “I’ll have a nurse start the water,” she says on her way out of the room.

 

“I guess I’ll go get the baby shampoo.”

 

 

By the time Clint gets back with the shampoo, the tub is full in the bathroom attached to Thor’s hospital room, and a nurse has Thor all ready to go. He’s got a  plastic bag wrapped around one arm to keep the I.V. connection dry. She has him uncovered except for the gown, and Clint can’t help but notice how thin his legs are, like little twigs. He’s definitely lost weight; no wonder Cho decided to put in the feeding tube.

 

“All right, Sgt. Barnes, you can go ahead and get in the tub now,” the nurse says (What’shername? Like Becky or something?). She’s not quite making eye contact. Clint wonders if it’s because she’s intimidated by Bucky’s metal arm, or in awe of his glistening chest. Seriously, does the man wax his chest hair? How could any man be that perfectly hairless naturally?

 

Bucky climbs in the tub and Clint helps the nurse carefully transfer a limp Thor, still wrapped in the thin gown, to Bucky’s chest. “You guys ok?” the nurse asks after they are all situated.

 

“Yep, we got this, uh. . .” Clint finally spots her name tag. “. . . Bonnie. Thanks.”

 

She leaves with a little wave, so now Clint’s gotta wash the kid’s hair. As he sprays the water on, Thor, who has been mostly unconscious throughout the transfer,  squirms fretfully. 

 

“It’s ok, Thor. Just relax,” Bucky says, patting him on the back. Thor opens his eyes to slits and lifts his head just enough to gaze up into Bucky’s face.

 

“Uncuh Bucky,” he croaks.

 

“Yeah, Thor?” Bucky says.

 

Instead of answering, Thor closes his eyes and rests his head back onto Bucky’s chest. “My Uncuh Bucky,” he breathes. His little fingers go _pat pat pat_ against Bucky’s bicep.

 

Bucky’s mouth twists and his eyes scrunch up. “Yeah, that’s right,” he says in a strained voice. “And you’re my little buddy, right?”

 

Thor shakes his head, just the tiniest movement.

 

“No?”

 

“No,” Thor whispers, “’quirt.”

 

“Squirt?”

 

Now Thor gives a tiny nod before he’s back to sleep again. Bucky clears his throat, followed by a hard swallow. His eyes flick to Clint, who quickly pretends to be focused on pouring a puddle of shampoo in his hand. _Didn’t see a thing, pal._

 

As Clint works the shampoo in, Bucky leans his head back against the end of the tub and closes his eyes. By the time Clint is ready to rinse, he’s pretty sure Bucky’s asleep. His breathing is soft and even, and his hand has slipped down on Thor’s back. Clint pauses with the sprayer in his hand and casts a critical eye over Bucky’s stringy, tangled hair. Maybe he could get away with washing it as well? Put a little of Lila’s condition in there, maybe work in some of Laura’s shaping lotion. . . trim up the split ends. . . 

 

Before he can even move the sprayer, Bucky’s metal hand suddenly shoots out and grabs his wrist. The grip is just tight enough to keep him from moving; it doesn’t hurt. “Don’t even think about it,” Bucky growls, eyes still closed.

 

“Think about what?” Clint protests, “I was just about to rinse Thor’s hair.”

 

“That’s all?”

 

“Yes, of course that’s all.”

 

“Ok,” Bucky says, but he doesn’t let go.

 

“Ok, so if you could just let go of my wrist now. . .”

 

Slowly the fingers retract. Bucky still hasn’t opened his eyes. Dude. Keep your split ends. And Clint will keep all his fingers, thank you very much.

 

 

 

As soon as they get Thor dried off and wrapped up in a new gown, Bucky pulls him in and buries his nose in the kid’s hair.

 

“Smell better?” Clint asks.

 

“Oh yeah.” Bucky holds the kid out, so of course Clint has to take a whiff. Yeah, that’s the stuff. Parent crack. Addictive as hell.

 

Thor doesn’t stir as they carefully lay him down in the bed and tuck him in. He doesn’t even stir as Bucky works the tangles out of his hair, first carefully, then not so carefully when he starts to get frustrated at the stubbornest knots. When he’s done, he slicks back the sides, gives him a side part, and combs back the top into a pompadour. Kid looks like he’s about to play the upright bass in a rockabilly band.

 

* * *

 

Clint sends Bucky packing for the night. Well, he tries to send Bucky packing. Bucky stubbornly folds his arms and refuses to move until Clint calls in the big guns. Steve shows up and says the magic words (“I’m going to eat the rest of that cake if you don’t go get some sleep.”), Bucky scowls fiercely, but he does get up and clump out after Steve. 

 

Clint falls asleep in the chair with his head at an awkward angle. He’s awakened a little while later by a wavering cry. “Uncuh Cwint,” Thor whimpers. His head moves fitfully back and forth, small hand reaching out for Clint.

 

“Hey, buddy, I’m here, I’m here,” Clint assures him, taking hold of his clammy hand. “It’s ok, I’m here.”

 

“‘Nuggoh me.”

 

“I don’t know if I—“

 

“Pwease?”

 

“Yeah, ok, I’ll see what I can do. Just a second, pal.”

 

Luckily at that moment, Nurse Bonnie buzzes in to take Thor’s temperature. When Clint asks if he can hold Thor, she says, “Of course,” and helps him get the wires untangled enough that he can lean back in the chair and hold the kid chest to chest. He’s warm, far too warm. His sweaty cheek rests heavily against Clint’s collarbone and his skinny arms dangle limply on either side of Clint’s ribcage.

 

“That better?” Clint asks. The only response is a tiny nod.

 

Clint’s almost back to sleep, lulled there by the heat and the staccato rise and fall of Thor’s breathing, when the kid croaks, “Uncuh Cwint?”

 

“Yeah, buddy?”

 

“When is my mama coming?”

 

Shit. Clint knew confusion was one of the symptoms of meningitis, but this little whispered question throws him for a loop. His throat is so tight, he can barely force out, “You’re safe, Thor. Everything’s all right,” because what else is he supposed to say? _Sorry, Thor, your mama is dead, remember?_  Clint can't do that.

 

* * *

 

The next morning Clint wakes up with a crick in his neck and Thor still draped over him like a blanket. The first thing he sees, once he can pry his eyes open, is a plastic container sitting on the side table, holding a small sliver of Laura’s chocolate truffle cake—he’d recognize that those velvety layers and smooth ganache anywhere. A plastic fork is balanced on top of the container. Once his eyes focus enough, he sees Bucky slouched down in his usual chair, arms crossed and scowl firmly in place. 

 

“Sleep well?” Clint asks as he disentangles himself from all of Thor’s wires.

 

“No.”

 

Bucky doesn’t elaborate, so Clint shrugs and starts trying to stand up, which is tough because the kid is a dead weight. Bucky gets up and helps Clint lay Thor back down in the bed, even tucks him in and kisses his head, without ever dropping the scowl.

 

“You gonna eat your cake?” Bucky asks gruffly, after they finish the task.

 

“This is for me?”

 

Bucky glares at him. “Who else would it be for?” he snaps.

 

Yes, who else indeed? “Thank you,” Clint says, hoping for a smile, or at least a decrease in the intensity of the glare, but no such luck, so he just shuts up and eats chocolate truffle cake for breakfast. Maybe he can follow it up with an insulin chaser.

 

After Clint finishes his sugar fix, Dr. Cho shows up with Sam and “invites” Clint and Bucky back to her office, Clint’s _favorite place in the world_. Sam slides into Clint’s seat and says, “I’ll keep it warm for you,” while Cho leads them out of the room.

 

Bucky sits in the chair that Steve had sat in, also with his arms tightly folded, while Clint squeezes into the other chair practically under his metal elbow, even though it does not seem like the safest place to be right now. Cho doesn’t lapse into medical mumbo-jumbo this time, she just says it straight out. “Thor’s not responding to the antibiotics.” Her voice is steady even though there are tears standing in her eyes. “I’m concerned about sepsis. That means the infection travels throughout the body.”

 

Bucky doesn’t move, just stares silently at her. He’s in full-on scary assassin mode and Clint is finding it intimidating as hell. “His oxygen levels have been dropping, even with supplemental oxygen, and he’s clearly having to work hard to breathe,” Cho continues. 

 

Bucky still doesn’t move. To fill the silence, Clint says, “What can you do about it?”

 

“If his oxygen levels stay below 75, I’m going to have to intubate him. He has to have sufficient oxygen to prevent brain damage.” She’s interrupted at this point by Bucky standing up. “Bucky—“ she starts, but he’s out the door already. “—I’m sorry. . .” she finishes, voice breaking. “Clint, I’m so sorry. We are trying every class of antibiotics we have, and I keep upping the dosage.”

 

Clint hadn’t intended to stand up, he just finds himself on his feet. Even though he feels like his guts are being squeezed out, he forces himself to say, “I know you’re doing everything you can. It’s not your fault.” No, it’s not her fault, it’s _yours_ , his brain reminds him. GUILT GUILT GUILT. 

 

He doesn’t see Bucky in the hall—he can’t see much of anything on account of the tears clouding his eyes, but he’s pretty sure he couldn’t miss a six-foot-three-inch-tall supersoldier. After a minute looking up and down the hall, Clint realizes he knows where Bucky must have gone—to the gym, where he “always goes when. . .” What’s the rest of that sentence? . . . When it all gets too much, when he’s wrestling with emotions that he can’t even label, much less understand, he gets on the treadmill and runs until that emotional pain gets buried by physical pain. It hurts, but at least he understands that hurt. Emotional pain may control him, but physical pain he can control. Clint might just understand that sentiment a little too well. After all that fucked up shit went down with Loki, Clint may have broken a couple of bones in his hand beating up a punching bag, pretending it was Loki’s face. So now maybe Clint should find Bucky and. . . what? Offer comfort? Get him to talk about his _feelings_? HA!

 

Clint’s brain reminds him that Bucky’s emotional pain is ALL CLINT’S FAULT.  Nice. Thank you, Brain. Never mind. Clint’s just gonna go take a shower, and if he happens to cry in that shower, who’s going to know?

 

* * *

 

After the shower, Clint intends to back to the medical floor, he really does, but his body has other plans. He lays down on his bed for “just a minute” and wakes up over an hour later, disoriented, with his eyes puffy and his throat sore. He’d better get back down there before Thor wakes up. What if the kid gets confused again? What if he’s crying and only Clint can fix it?

 

He hurries back to the medical wing, where he finds the door to Thor’s room open only a crack, which is not how they left it. He’s about to push it open when he hears a voice. It takes him a minute to recognize it as Bucky’s, pitched low and rougher than usual. Clint pauses with his hand on the door and listens.

 

“It would be great if you could wake up, squirt,” Bucky says gruffly, “We all miss you a lot. Stevie asks me ‘bout you all the time, keeps pestering me for updates. So you gotta wake up so I have something new to tell him and he’ll get off my back. He’s a real pain in the neck, you know?”

 

Bucky chuckles, and Clint’s about to open the door, but then the chuckle sours, turns into a gasp then a hard sniffle, and Clint freezes because Bucky is _crying_ , not laughing, and there’s no way Clint’s going to walk in on that.

 

“I know you said I should tell him, about all the shit that happened to me, but I don’t know if I can do that. I—I gotta be honest with ya, kid, I kinda freak out when Stevie gets anxious. I don’t handle it so good.” His voice breaks, and his breathing breaks with it. “I—I love you, squirt. You know that, right? You just have to wake up and be ok, all right?” 

 

Then there are no more words, only Bucky’s ragged sobs. Clint squeezes his eyes shut and pushes down his own threatening tears. Noiselessly he backs up around the corner, counts to ten in his head, then starts walking forward again, clearing his throat and making sure his footsteps are audible. As he approaches the door, he hears a loud sniffle and then Bucky’s chair scraping back. When he opens the door he finds Bucky leaned back in his chair. His jaw is set and his lips are pressed together. His red-rimmed eyes flick to Clint and then quickly away again. Clint’s stomach clenches. GUILT GUILT GUILT YOUR FAULT YOUR FAULTYOURFAULT his traitorous brain shouts at him.

 

“I’m sorry,” Clint blurts out.

 

“Sorry for what?”

 

The words tumble out like a confession. “This is all my fault. I knew as soon as I saw him that Nathaniel was sick. I should’ve kept him away.”

 

“It ain’t your fault.”

 

“Yes, it is. I shouldn’t’ve—“

 

Bucky cuts him off. “It was bound to happen. What’re you gonna do, put him in a bubble for the next hundred years? You couldn’t keep him there. What kinda life would that be? This kid needs to run.” Bucky’s metal fingers gently slide through Thor’s silky hair. When he finally looks up, his eyes are brimming. “He was happy there. You gave him a home and a family. It’s what he needed.”

 

Clint has to push the words past the growing lump in his throat. “ _We_ gave him a family. You, me, all of us. _We’re_ his family.”

 

* * *

 

_Text from Tony_

_BACKWARDS!!_

 

**What do you mean?**  

 

_Loki!!_

 

**WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT??**

 

**TONY??**

 

There is no response. _No, Tony, you don’t just get to text something like that then don’t respond to questions._ Nuh- _uh_.

 

Clint pushes himself out of his chair as silently as possible. He’s not worried about waking Thor up, since the kid hasn’t even opened his eyes since the day before yesterday, but it’s the goddamn middle of the night and Bucky just _finally_ fell asleep in the other chair. 

 

He gets to the lab to find it again a hive of apparently disorganized activity, lots of shuffling to and fro, some hapless intern scurrying after Tony as he strides around the lab adjusting who-knows-what for reasons that are apparent only to him, Bruce hunched over a microscope in a cluttered corner. Shaking his head, he keeps going until he gets to Tony, who doesn’t even look up from his StarkPad, where he is apparently either running simulations or playing the world’s most boring video game.

 

“Clint, buddy, pal, good to see you, good to see you. What brings you down here?”

 

“You texted me,” Clint says, looking around the lab for the shield, hoping he won’t find it melted into a puddle. But no, there it is, still intact, but now it’s laying flat on the counter, and on top of it, apparently welded on, are three metal prongs, sticking up like fingers, holding the stone upright. “What’s going on? Looks like you changed your set-up.”

 

“Yep.” Tony adjusts something on the schematic a micrometer to the right. “It was backwards, which Loki so kindly told us if we had just been listening.”

 

“He told us?”

 

“Yes, he said they did it backwards. So we reversed the components and viola!” He turns the StarkPad around and shows Clint an image of. . . something. Yeah, no idea.

 

“What am I looking at?”

 

“Blah blah blah something something diffraction gradient blah blah blah vibranium base something something adamantium support blah blah blah, just like that! See?”

 

“Um. . . sure. . . ?”

 

“Never mind, the details aren’t important to you.” Gee, thanks, Tony. Clint is surprised Tony doesn’t follow that up with a pat to the head. “Suffice it to say, we have the process moving in the right direction now. It’s just a matter of. . . refining the details.”

 

Bruce, who has apparently snuck up and joined them sometime during the conversation, puts in, “Details? You told me guinea pigs don’t scream, Tony,”

 

“They don’t.”

 

“Then what was that noise?”

 

“It wasn’t a scream.”

 

“Well, whatever, the thing certainly was in pain.”

 

“But it did increase size, and it survived.”

 

“Sort of.”

 

“Wait—you have it working correctly?” Clint interrupts.

 

Tony says, “Yes,” at the same time Bruce says, “No.” Clint looks back and forth from one to the other, thoroughly confused.

 

“Well, which is it?”

 

“We are moving in the right direction. However, since we switched the components, so far we have only had two subjects survive out of eight trials. And all of the subjects demonstrated a significant pain response and varying levels of . . . deformity.”

 

“Deformity? What do you mean?”

 

“I mean the process was not applied evenly.”

 

“Details,” Tony cuts in. “Like I said, details. We just have to get the angles right. Wanda’s sketch was not exactly a technical schematic.” 

 

“Well, we don’t have a clearer picture. . .” Bruce breaks off, gazing off into the distance. “. . . hang on a second. . .” He wanders away tapping at his StarkPad. Tony follows him.

 

“Are you thinking. . . ?”

 

“Yeah, that would probably. . .”

 

They both walk away, leaving Clint standing stupidly in the middle of the lab still without a clear idea of what’s happening. The process “was not applied evenly”? What the hell does that mean?

 

* * *

 

Little Thor gets a breathing tube, so that’s fun. Bucky holds Thor’s hand gently in his flesh hand, while his metal fingers almost crush the bedrail. After she’s done, he has to pry the fingers off one by one, leaving behind permanent indentations in the metal.

 

The kid, on the other hand, doesn’t stir.


	31. Tony gets the picture

* * *

 

 

God, seizures are the worst. Just the fucking worst. By the time the fifth one rolls around, Clint feels like a wrung out washrag. He feels so helpless and useless. His only function during a seizure is to drag Bucky back out of the way so the doc can take care of the kid (not that she can do much of anything either, because he doesn’t respond to the meds they keep trying over and over as if they’ll suddenly start working). Clint mostly fails at that too because Bucky is too big to move. Clint has to convince him, which takes time. Luckily Cho is small and can slip around them to get to Thor, whose little body is convulsing and jerking on the bed like it’s his job.

 

After three more nurses run into the room and push past them, Bucky finally lets himself be pulled out into the hallway where he stands glaring through the open door like he thinks they’re trying to hurt the kid. They can hear Thor retching and choking. Clint wants to put his hands over his ears but he resists.

 

“Come on, man, we can’t do anything. Let’s get something to drink.” When Bucky doesn’t move, Clint goes and gets him a paper cup of water, which he holds in his flesh hand. As he raises it to take a drink, the cup is shaking so hard the water almost sloshes out.

 

“They’re taking care of him, all right?” Clint tries to reassure Bucky. It doesn’t work, obviously, because Bucky continues scowling at the door. “Look, why don’t you go take a break. Just get some rest or something.”

 

“I don’t need rest.”

 

“Seems to me like you do.”

 

“I’ve done nothing but fucking _sit here_ for days,” Bucky growls. “That’s resting.”

 

“Then take a walk. I don’t know. You just need some time away from here. I’ll be here, you don’t have to worry.”

 

“I’m not worried,” Bucky says, but his face is saying different. When Clint doesn’t relent, he crushes the cup in his metal hand, turns and stalks away without another word. God, Clint really hopes he takes a nap, anything to improve his attitude.

 

By the time they let Clint back in the room, all the vomit has been cleaned up (although Clint can still smell it), and the kid is dressed in a clean gown, his hair is neatly combed and his face has been washed, but that can’t hide the fact that his skin is ghostly pale and his closed eyes are ringed with dark smudges like a goddamn raccoon.

 

Clint sits down next to the bed and holds his limp hand, watches his chest rise and fall evenly in time with the ventilator. He leans forward and rests his forehead on the edge of the bed. Closing his eyes, he lets his own breaths slide into the same rhythm. 

 

. . . Breathe. . . 

 

Hear the ventilator, footsteps in the hallway, beeping of the heart monitor, his own heartbeat. . .

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

Feel the silky cape against his forehead, slender bones beneath the skin of Thor’s fingers, pressure behind his eyes. . .

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

Smell antiseptic and vomit. . .

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

. . . Breathe. . . 

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

Smell jasmine. . . Clint looks up to find Nat sitting in Bucky’s chair with a book open on her lap. “Hey,” he says, croaky-voiced.

 

“Hey yourself. It looked like you were having a moment, didn’t want to interrupt.”

 

“Wallowing, more like.”

 

“Where’s Bucky?”

 

“I sent him off to rest. At least I hope he rests.”

 

“You should go too,” she says to Clint.

 

“I slept earlier.”

 

“How much earlier?”

 

“Yesterday.”

 

“Uh-huh. How long?”

 

“A couple of hours. I don’t know. I’m fine.”

 

“Ok. Sure.” Keeping her book open on her knees, Nat pulls out her phone. Clint’s pretty sure she’s texting Laura to tattle on him, but whatever. He can’t worry about that right now, because he’s putting all his mental energy into staying awake and proving her wrong. And Bonus! While he sits there in the silence and tries not to fall asleep, he gets to WORRY. It’s just a little pastime he’s picked up. Not to brag, but he’s getting quite proficient at it.

 

* * *

 

Did you know there’s a “coma scale”? Clint does now, because he has to watch the doc perform it on the kid. The lowest score is three (completely un-fucking-conscious, Clint would call it), she explains, but Thor gets a four because when she pinches his fingernail, his arms and legs stretch out weird and his toes point. Dr. Cho calls that “de-something posturing”. Clint calls it “you hurt him and I’ll break your face.” He doesn’t say that last part out loud, but his face must be broadcasting it, because Cho bites her lip and releases Thor’s finger quickly.

 

“I’m sorry,” Cho says, “I don’t want to hurt him, but I need to perform the test.”

 

“He’s worse, isn’t he?” Clint says gruffly. Bucky’s not in the room, so he’s feeling the freedom to be blunt. Nat, who is sitting in Bucky’s chair playing on her phone, looks up, listening.

 

“I’m sorry,” Cho repeats. She’s tapping buttons on her Starkpad without looking up. Clint’s not sure which of them she’s talking to anymore. 

 

“So that’s a yes? A couple of days ago he was opening his eyes at least. Now he’s not even doing that.”

 

Cho sighs and puts down her StarkPad. “Yes, he’s worse. I’m sorry, Clint. If the antibiotics were going to help, we would have seen some effects by now.”

 

“What are we going to try next? I thought you said something about immunotherapy.”

 

“I’ve been giving him immunoglobulin through the I.V., but that treatment takes time. We have to go slowly to minimize side effects.”

 

“How long will it take?”

 

“We need several treatments before we know if it’s going to have a positive effect, but I have to space them out to protect his kidneys. I’m already seeing. . . well, we just have to go slowly.”

 

Clint’s fingernails are digging into his palms. She’s not being straight with him, he can tell. “How long? Weeks? Months? Does he even have that long?”

 

“I—I don’t know.”

 

“Please, Doc, if he’s going to die, I need to be ready, because Bucky. . .” Clint trails off. He can’t finish that sentence, but he’s thinking about how they’re gonna tell Bucky, and how to prepare Steve, so he can help if Bucky goes off the rails. 

 

“. . . It’s possible, Clint. I’m sorry. I’m waiting for results of the repeat CT, then I’ll share all the information I have.”

 

“We have to—Bucky wants to know. We have to tell him.”

 

“I’ll call a team meeting, probably tomorrow, so everyone is on the same page.” Cho pauses in checking Thor’s temperature to lay her hand lightly on his cheek. “I wish. . . I wish I had done that blood test when we first got him back.” In her voice is all the same guilt and regret that Clint has been burdened by since Thor first collapsed. 

 

“Not your fault, Helen,” Natasha reminds her. “Put the blame on Hydra where it belongs.”

 

“I know. That doesn’t make it any easier.” Cho busies herself with checking the equipment, adjusting the position of the breathing tube, fixing the edge of the little gauze sleeve covering the I.V., but Clint can see that her eyes are shining.

 

After she leaves, Clint takes out his phone and texts the one person who can always make him feel better.

 

**Text to Laura**

**Thor’s not doing so well**

 

_What’s going on?_

 

**He’s not responding to the antibiotics. Cho had to put in a breathing tube**

 

Clint’s phone starts buzzing in his hand, call from Laura. He needs desperately to talk to her, to hear her voice. If she tells him it’ll be all right, then it _will_ be all right. So why is he afraid to hit the accept button?

 

Finally, just before it goes to voice mail, he hits the button to connect the call. Squeezing his eyes shut, he puts the phone up against his ear, but his throat has closed up and he can barely even breathe, much less speak.

 

“Clint? Honey?” Laura says.

 

“. . . Hey,” he manages to respond, finally. The tears are very close to the surface. He can feel them pushing at the backs of his eyeballs, trying to escape.

 

“I’m so sorry, honey.”

 

“. . . yeah. . . me too.” Clint sniffles and rubs the back of his hand across his runny nose.

 

“What did Helen say? Does she have anything else she can try?”

 

“She’s out of options. She says. . . he keeps. . . having seizures and . . . They’re trying. . . I don’t know. I just. . .” He trails off, because what more is he supposed to say? And how can he say it through the lump in his throat?

 

Natasha raises her eyebrows and holds out her hand for the phone, but he shakes his head. He needs to hear Laura’s voice, even if he can barely speak. 

 

“Is he. . . comfortable?” Laura asks. Clint smoothes his hand over Thor’s hair. His face is relaxed in sleep. One positive of his lack of responsiveness is that he is no longer squirming or crying out in pain. It’s easier to pretend he’s just sleeping. Or it would be if it weren’t for the feeding tube taped to his cheek, and the breathing tube hanging out of his mouth, and the whoosh of the machine breathing for him. Fuck.

 

“I think so. He’s not really. . . responding to anything.”

 

He hears a voice in the background, Nathaniel demanding, “Is that daddy? I want to talk to him!”

 

“Not right now, sweetheart,” Laura says. 

 

“No, put him on the phone,” Clint tells her. It’s not fair to Nathaniel to push him away. He needs comfort too. “Hey buddy.”

 

“Daddy, I want Thor to come back here.”

 

“I’m sorry, Nathaniel, he can’t do that right now. He’s sick.”

 

“Mom can make him some chicken soup.”

 

“No, he’s too sick for chicken soup.”

 

“Is he going to die??”

 

“I—I don’t know, buddy. I hope not.” Clint’s eyes are burning. He presses his thumb and forefinger hard against his eyelids, trying desperately to keep the tears at bay.

 

“I want him to be all right! I want him for another brother!” He can hear Nathaniel crying now, and it’s the straw that broke the camel’s back. Clint’s control fails and suddenly he’s full-on sobbing. Leaning forward, he puts his hand over his face and holds the phone away from his mouth so Nathaniel won’t hear him. The tears splash onto the floor in front of him.

 

Laura’s voice comes back on the line. “Clint?” she says. Clint can’t answer her, all he can do is cry. “Clint, sweetheart. . . I wish I was there to give you a hug right now.”

 

Clint wants to tell her he wishes she were there too. He wants to tell her he loves her. He wants to tell her Thor is going to be ok and they’ll be back next week for more plums and raspberries and family bonding, but when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is a sob. His shoulders are making a weird jerky movement and he can’t make it stop. After a few minutes of this nonsense, he feels Nat’s hand slide onto his back, which makes things worse, not better, dammit. A tissue appears in front of his face. Wordlessly he exchanges the phone for the tissue.

 

“Hey Laura,” Nat says. Her hand rubs warm circles between his shoulderblades as she murmurs, “uh-huh. . . uh-huh. . . yeah, you too. . . ok, I will. . . love to you and the kids too. . . ok, I’ll text you if there’s any change. . . Ok, Bye.”

 

“Hey, Clint?”

 

Clint wipes his nose on his tissue and chokes out, “Yeah?” without looking up.

 

“Laura says I’m supposed to give you a hug.”

 

“Ok.”

 

“She says you have to stand up for the hug.”

 

“Ok.” Clint lets himself be pulled to his feet. His stupid face is still leaking tears. Stop it, face. Nat gathers him in and hugs him tightly around the waist. After a minute, he lets his arms go around her shoulders. He wishes he could stop shaking. He wishes Thor would open his eyes. He wishes Laura were here to make it all better. 

 

Nat’s arm around his waist gently guides him toward the door. When he tries to pull back, she says, “Laura also said I was supposed to make you eat something.”

 

“We can’t leave him alone.”

 

“I just texted Wanda. She’s on her way down. The nurses are just outside. Come on, a meal will make you feel better. Maybe a shower. . .” She leads him out the door and he trails behind her like a lost puppy.

 

* * *

 

_Group Text from: Steve_

_Team meeting 11 am. Updates from Cho re: medical and Tony/Bruce re: progress. I need everyone there, please._

 

Team meeting with everyone means Bucky and Clint both have to leave their post, which Bucky is not down with.

 

“Somebody’s gotta stay with the kid, since you keep wandering off.”

 

“I didn’t wander off! I went to get something to eat. Wanda was on her way down.”

 

Bucky’s lip curls in disdain. “Wanda does not know how to snuggle him right!”

 

“You left too!”

 

“You made me!”

 

“You needed sleep! You were grumpy!”

 

_“I’m always grumpy!”_

 

“Guys?” comes Nat’s voice from the doorway. Both of them take a step back. Clint’s willing to drop it, but Bucky’s still glaring fiercely at him. “Steve sent me here to tell you guys to get to the meeting or I’m supposed to kick your asses.”

 

“Stevie said that?”

 

“Not in so many words. But you do need to come.”

 

“We’re not leaving the kid alone,” Bucky growls, transferring the glare to Nat.

 

“Then you’re in luck. This is Amira.” Nat steps aside to reveal a very young woman wearing scrubs and a headscarf standing behind her. “She’s going to sit with Thor until you get back. Ok?”

 

Bucky’s scowl deepens. “She looks like she’s twelve.”

 

“She’s a nurse!”

 

“Come on, Bucky, you were complaining no one tells you anything. Well, here’s your chance to hear the information firsthand.”

 

Bucky’s still scowling, but he does take a step toward the door, so Nat gestures to the nurse. “Go ahead, Amira. They’ll move.”

 

“Ok. Excuse me,” the young woman says, trying to edge her way around Bucky to get to the chair beside the bed. After a few more seconds, Bucky gives a grunt of exasperation and follows Nat out of the room.

 

“And you have to stay the whole time this time, ok?” Clint tells Bucky on the way to the elevator, even though he knows he’s taking his life into his hands. “That way you’ll make sure to hear everything. Ok?”

 

“Yeah. Whatever.”

 

“You’re staying?”

 

“If I promise I’ll stay, will you shut up?”

 

“Yep. Shutting up.” Clint makes a zipping motion across his lips. Maybe Bucky will shut up too. That would be nice.

 

“Whatever it takes.” Bucky mutters. 

 

They ride the elevator in tense silence. Bucky’s fists are clenched like he’s ready to punch something, hopefully not Clint’s face. In the conference room, they find Steve sitting with Dr. Cho. They’re in the middle of some sort of discussion, but they immediately clam up as soon as the others file in. Sam, Wanda, Vision, Bruce, all sit down without a word, none of the usual joking around. Bruce is carrying a pile of notepads, which he spreads out on the table, puts on his reading glasses, and starts silently flipping through his notes. Tony comes in last, and even he just slips into a chair without speaking. The air is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

 

“Ok, great, everyone, thanks for coming,” Steve says. His voice is calm and even, but his eyebrows are broadcasting loud and clear. Looking around the room, Clint sees Steve’s “sad bump” mirrored on every face, even probably his own. It’s not exactly under his control.

 

“Ok, Helen’s going to give us an update on Thor’s medical condition. I asked her to tell everyone at the same time so no one would be left out.” He’s looking at Bucky while he says that, but Bucky is staring at the Dr. Cho like he’s trying to read her mind.

 

“Thanks, Steve. I’m not going to go into all the details, but Thor’s condition is serious. He hasn’t responded to the antibiotics or immunoglobulin like I had hoped, and in fact the infection has spread.”

 

Bucky hasn’t moved, but under the table, Clint can see that his metal fingers are opening and closing spasmodically. Natasha, on the other side of Bucky, slides her hand into his flesh hand and squeezes gently. This does not seem to help, although Bucky doesn’t pull away. Clint’s worried he’s going to crush her hand, but so far he’s keeping his grip light. 

 

“I’m seeing widespread effects on his organs, particularly his kidneys,” Cho continues, looking down at her notes. “His fever remains high and the seizures are increasing. I’d like to hear from Tony about what progress they’ve made on reversing the process.”

 

“All right. Tony, can we get an update on your. . . work?” Steve asks.

 

“My work? Well, once we figured out we were doing everything backward, and switched the adamantium with the vibranium—“

 

“You have vibranium? Did you get some from T’Challa?” Steve interrupts.

 

“. . . Yeah, sure, Cat-man, right. . . Anyway, we rearranged the pieces and things started moving in the right direction. Now it’s just a matter of refining the angles.”

 

“So does that mean you’ve got it working?” Sam asks.

 

Tony shakes his head while saying, “We are indeed. . . moving in the right direction. There are still a few. . . irregularities.”

 

“What do you mean by that?”

 

“He means it’s not ready,” Bruce cuts in.

 

“Well, how soon will it be ready?” Cho asks.

 

“We are still doing tests. You know we can’t rush these things,” Bruce says.

 

“Tomorrow?”

 

“I can’t promise that,” Bruce says, shaking his head. “We are running about a thirty percent success rate right now. I can’t risk those odds.”

 

“Depends on how you measure success,” Tony mutters under his breath.

 

“I measure it based on the subject coming through the procedure intact and unharmed.”

 

“There you go with the word subject again,” Clint objects. “He’s not a _subject_ , he’s a kid! A very sick kid who keeps getting sicker!”

 

“What do you mean by unharmed?” Sam says, his words overlapping Clint’s.

 

“I mean screaming in pain.”

 

“Pain schmain. They lived,” Tony says.

 

“Barely!”

 

“Thor can handle pain, you know he can,” Cho says, “but he may not be able to handle this illness.”

 

“You don’t understand, if we try to use this on him now, he might be permanently harmed or even die,” Bruce says. He’s clearly working hard to keep control, but the cords in his neck are standing out and his ears are stained green.

 

Cho leans forward in her chair, matching his intensity. “No, you don’t understand! If we don’t do this within the next couple of days, he WILL die.”

 

Everyone gapes at her in silence. Even Tony can’t seem to come up with a response to that. Clint glances at Bucky, who has turned pale. Natasha’s hand has white marks from the grip of his fingers. Clint’s not sure he’s breathing.

 

Finally Steve speaks up. “Ok, we have to step up the timeline, even if it’s not perfect. What will it take to get this working?”

 

“Better drawings,” Tony says immediately. “No offense to Wanda, but your artwork is shit. We need more detail.”

 

Wanda glares at him. “You need more details? I can give you more details, but you’re not going to like it.”

 

“Why didn’t you say so. Here—“ Tony holds a StarkPad out to her, but she flicks out a red bolt to push it away.

 

“I’m a TELEPATH! If you want the whole picture, I’ll show it to you!”

 

“Oh! Uh—well, that would. . . yeah. Ok, you can. . .” Tony doesn’t get a chance to finish that sentence, because Wanda flicks her fingers again, this time at Tony’s head. A red mist starts swirling around him, and suddenly Tony’s eyes open very wide. His breathing stops, mouth hanging open like he’s gasping for air but not getting any. After a few seconds, he starts breathing again, very loud and fast. His eyes scrunch shut and his hands grip the sides of his head as if he’s in pain. Clint has to sit on his hands to keep from interfering because _shit_.

 

Finally Wanda breaks the hex and sits back in her chair. Her body is still, but her breathing is fast too and her eyes are haunted. “Now do you understand?” she asks in a voice that breaks at the end.

 

Tony, who has gone ghostly pale, nods. “Yes, I have it. Bruce, we’ve got work to do.” Tony tries to get up, but his knees buckle. Vision catches him before he falls. “Yeah, thanks, ok. Right,” Tony says, wavering back and forth with his hand to his head.

 

“Are you all right?” Cho asks. She jumps to her feet and takes a step toward him, but he waves her off.

 

“I’m fine. I’m just fine.” He takes a wobbly step, then leans more heavily on Vision for the next step. “Yep, just fine. No problem. Nooo problem at all. Bruce? Let’s go. How long do we have again?”

 

“Two days at the most. The sooner the better.”

 

“Ok, two days, yep. Ok. Friday, send some coffee down to the lab. Aaaall the coffee.”

 

“On its way, boss.”

 

Tony staggers out, supported by Vision. Bruce finishes gathering up his materials and hurries after them with an apologetic nod to the group, and the meeting just sort of ends.

 

Clint starts toward the door, thinking Bucky will follow him, but Bucky doesn’t get up. He’s slouched down in his chair watching Steve, who is in bent over typing something into his StarkPad, hair flopping over his forehead like a kid. Steve’s hand comes up and pushes back the forelock, but it falls right back down again. Clint doesn’t know how to interpret Bucky’s expression, but it’s not the hard glare he’s usually got fixed on his face. It’s softer, more like the way he looked at Little Thor in the hallway after he almost got snatched in the park. 

 

Steve gets up to go, and Bucky watches him walk to the door. When Steve gets to the hallway, Bucky calls, “Wait up, Stevie." Steve stops, Bucky’s catches up to him, and they walk off toward the stairs together, Steve with his back military straight and Bucky with his typical saunter, but both have their arms tightly folded--Self-protective, but in vain. Bucky’s metal arm may be able to stop bullets, and Steve’s serum can heal physical wounds, but neither can prevent a broken heart.


	32. Dat Wuwwaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is angry. Yeah, that's it. Also, he can sing. Who said he couldn't?

* * *

 

 

They’re gonna do it; they’re just gonna fucking do it. Tony says, “Oh, yeah, we got it to work right now, yep, like over 90% accuracy.”

 

“87%,” Bruce clarifies. 

 

“Better than 0%, right? I’ll take those odds.” Tony says. His tone is flippant, but there’s an edge to it, a tightness around his eyes, that says different. 

 

 

Dr. Cho says they need to say something to Thor before they do the “procedure.” She says “say something,” but Clint knows what she really means. She means they need to say goodbye. Judging by the look on Bucky’s face, he doesn’t know that, and Clint’s not going to be the one to inform him.

 

“What the fuck do I tell him?” Bucky asks. Steve, standing behind his shoulder, has that ‘someone is squeezing my head’ look about him again.

 

“Tell him you love him, say all the stuff you want to say now, so you don’t regret it later,” Cho says. “Do you want a few minutes to think about it first?”

 

“Clint can go first,” Bucky says, taking a step back, which happens to be in the direction of the door. Clint’s afraid he’s going to take off running, which in his estimation would be a big mistake.

 

“How ‘bout if we go in together?” Clint suggests. “Will you go with me?” He moves to the side to gesture for Bucky to precede him into Thor’s room. Bucky’s eyes flit back and forth between the door to Thor’s room and the hallway, which leads to freedom. His escape is blocked by Steve’s massive shoulders, so Bucky finally scrunches up his face and goes ahead of Clint into Thor’s room, where the kid is lying still and silent. The only sound is the whooshing of the breathing machine and the beeping of the heart monitor. 

 

After closing the door behind them, Clint pulls two chairs up next to the bed and gestures for Bucky to sit in one while he sits in the other. Bucky sits on the edge of the chair, hands curled into fists in his lap. Clint picks up Thor’s slack hand and lays it on top of his own. It’s disconcerting to see Thor’s hands so still when they are usually so busy making mischief. 

 

Clint hasn’t planned out anything to say, but there’s lots happening in his brain, so he just starts dumping it all out, saying all the things on his heart so he won’t regret it later, like the doc said. “Hey, buddy,” Clint starts, but his voice breaks, so he has clear his throat and start again. “Hey, buddy, I need to tell you how much you mean to us. My family adores you. Nathaniel wanted you for another brother. I wish we could’ve made that happen. I wish. . . well, I wish a lot of things, but I’m glad I got a chance to be your Uncle Clint. I’m glad you’re part of our family here. You belong here. You belong to us, and no matter what happens, that will never change. We love you—I love you a lot, Thor, and nothing will ever change that either.” 

 

Clint clears his throat again and sits back a little to indicate to Bucky that it’s his turn, but Bucky just sits still and silent like he’s carved from stone, eyes locked onto Thor’s profile. After a moment, Clint takes hold of Bucky’s hand, his flesh one, and lays it on top of Thor’s, so their hands are all piled up together with Thor’s little one sandwiched in between.

 

Bucky doesn’t pull his hand away, although he still doesn’t speak. By now Clint knows him well enough to be sure that there are words stuck in there somewhere. He just needs a little push to get them to come out. “You need to say it, Bucky. Say what you want to say.”

 

“I—I can’t.”

 

“Tell him how you feel.”

 

“What good does that do? He can’t even hear me.”

 

“We don’t know that, but it doesn’t matter. You need to say it.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Just—just because! Talking about feelings makes most people feel better.”

 

“I don’t think I’m ‘most people’.”

 

Clint huffs in exasperation. “Can you please just try it? Please? Do it for him,” he says, gesturing to the kid.

 

“That’s not fair,” Bucky protests, like a goddamn toddler.

 

“Who says I have to play fair? Do it.” Clint slides his hand out from the bottom of the pile and sits back, leaving the warmth of Bucky and Thor’s hands behind. Bucky still doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. 

 

After a couple of minutes, Clint starts casting about in his mind for something that will help knock Bucky’s words loose. A memory surfaces, of his first session with Dr. Torgenson (after Laura told him, “I love you, but I can’t be with you like this,” and decamped her pregnant self and toddler Cooper to her mother’s house), where Clint sat staring at his hands, lips glued together. Dr. Torgenson stuck a chart of emotions in front of his face and asked him to point to how he felt. He remembers very clearly the picture for Powerless: a little person on his knees in a corner, hands bound together with old-timey shackles, while a huge shadowy figure loomed over him, holding the end of the chain. Clint stared at that picture until the image burned itself into his brain, but he couldn’t point to it. He couldn’t admit to this stranger that he felt his life was completely out of his control. So he picked Angry instead, and Dr. Torgenson said, “That’s a good start, thanks.”

 

That night, as he lay in his big empty bed, he could see the shackles on his own wrists, could feel himself being dragged along by the chain. It took him three weeks to force his hand to point to the Powerless picture, but when he finally did, Dr. Torgenson said, “Clint, I’m very proud of you for being honest with me. I feel very honored that you would share how you really feel.” Aaand he burst into tears, and she spent the rest of the session feeding him tissues in silence. Not exactly his finest moment, but it did get better, slowly, after that.

 

Clint pulls out his phone and searches for an emotions chart for Bucky. After a minute, he finds one with more realistic pictures rather than cartoony faces for kids. It has positive emotions all neatly lined up in columns on the left and negative emotions on the right. It’s insanely detailed, with choices like “Forlorn”, “melancholy”, and “elated”, but it does have nice clear illustrations, so it will have to do.

 

“Here, Bucky, maybe this will help,” Clint says, holding his phone in front of Bucky.

 

“What’s this shit?”

 

“A feelings chart. You just choose the one that best matches what you feel.”

 

“What if none of them do?”

 

“Then at least you have a place to get started. Just look at it, ok?”

 

“Fine. Whatever.” Bucky takes the phone in his metal hand and glares at the screen, brow furrowed, for several minutes. Finally he taps on. . . Angry. Well, it’s a start.

 

“You’re angry?”

 

“Yeah. Angry. This fucking sucks.”

 

“Ok, angry is a good choice. Thanks for telling me.”

 

Clint expects him to hand the phone back, but instead he taps again to expand the details for Anger, and leans in to examine the screen with his eyebrows furrowed.

 

“Why’s it say Anger is a secondary emotion? What’s that mean?”

 

“Um. . . I guess it means there’s usually something behind it, something else you’re feeling that makes you angry.”

 

“Oh.” Bucky taps the arrow to go back to the chart, then continues studying the choices. After a few seconds, Clint holds out his hand for the phone because they’re done, right? He did the chart thing and Bucky did the pointing thing so they’re done. That’s how it works.

 

“I ain’t finished. I gotta find the other emotion.”

 

“The other emotion?”

 

“Yeah. It says Anger is secondary, so there’s something else, right? I gotta find that one. That’s what you said, right?”

 

“Oh. I guess. . . yeah.”

 

After a few more seconds of study, Bucky points to Anxious. Then he lays the phone on his knee so he can zoom in one-handed and keeps scrolling around the chart. Another few seconds of study, then he picks Overwhelmed, followed by Worried, then Anguished, then his finger is moving so fast Clint can’t keep up. Holy shit. Tin man has feels in spades, and they all fall on the right side of the chart. Suddenly Clint’s little game of cataloguing Bucky’s emotions doesn’t seem so fun anymore.

 

“Um. . . Thanks for sharing, Bucky. I appreciate it.”

 

“Can I borrow this?” Bucky says unexpectedly.

 

“Borrow it? Do you. . . have more feelings you want to talk about?”

 

“Not for me, for Stevie.”

 

“For Steve?”

 

“Yeah. He just keeps saying everything’s fine, but come on, look at him! He’s gotta start talking about his feelings or he’s gonna. . .” Bucky mouths boom while spreading his hands like an explosion. “You have no idea, man.”

 

“Ok, I’ll text it to you.”

 

“Good.” Bucky still doesn’t hand back the phone, even though Clint’s reaching for it.

 

“Ready to go?”

 

“No, I gotta talk to the kid.”

 

“Oh. Ok.” Clint sits back awkwardly while Bucky turns to Thor. Bucky’s still holding Clint’s phone in his metal hand and Thor’s hand in his flesh one. Clint hopes he remembers not to squeeze too tight and accidentally break the phone.

 

“Hey, squirt, I gotta say some sh—stuff so I don’t regret it later. So here goes. . . you are the most incredible kid I ever met. And you’re fuc—you’re brave too, cuz you do stuff even when you’re scared outta your mind. I ain’t as brave as you are, squirt, and I don’t think I ever will be. . . Clint says I gotta tell you how I feel, but that’s hard cuz I feel lots of different stuff and none of it’s good and you don’t need to be burdened down with all that crap. You need to run and play and jump on the trampoline until you feel like you’re flying and shout cuz you’re so happy. That’s what you’re supposed to be doing and the fact that you can’t is a big load of shit and well, that’s all I got to say. Sorry.”

 

Bucky abruptly stands, shoves the phone back into Clint’s hand, and backs out of the room, his eyes never leaving Thor’s profile. His face is completely expressionless, apparently emotionless again, but Clint knows better. Suppression—The feelings are there, he’s just got them locked away in a box inside his head, trying to protect himself from the pain. Clint is all too familiar with that particular defense mechanism. He remembers standing stone-faced while “grandma” screamed in his face and beat him bloody with her cane. She couldn’t hurt him if he didn’t let her, or so his five-year-old brain thought. Eventually he learned it wasn’t pain avoided, it was just pain deferred. Years later, when Laura raised her voice at him, he responded by dumping all the shit he had been suppressing all over her.

 

Once the door swings shut behind Bucky, Clint turns back to Thor and picks up that little hand again. He has to tell the kid goodbye, but the words are sticking in his throat. He stalls for time by gently smoothing back a lock of Thor’s hair that has fallen over his forehead. “Buddy, I don’t know how to say this—dammit.” He pauses to press his thumb and forefinger against his eyes. “I’m going to miss you. I’m going to miss hearing your little voice, and playing trucks with you, and I’ll probably even miss you waking me up at four a.m. and making Pop-tarts. I really liked hanging out with you and I wish it didn’t have to end. . . I hope this works, I really do, but either way, this is goodbye, buddy.”

 

Clint carefully lays Thor’s hand back on the bed on top of the cape. He pushes back his chair and leaves the room quickly, before he falls apart. Maybe he’s suppressing too. Maybe he has to.

 

When he opens the door, Sam and Steve are waiting outside the room for their turn to talk to Thor. Bucky is nowhere in sight. He’s probably back in the gym again, where he goes when shit gets a little too real. . . Now is definitely one of those times.

 

* * *

 

 

Bucky rematerializes like magic when everyone is done with their goodbyes. He’s changed his shirt, but his hair is tied up on top and the part that is still hanging down clings to his neck in sweat-damp tendrils. The rest of the team stand off to the side of the waiting room while the science bros bring in their set-up on a rolling cart. Bucky and Steve have their arms folded again in mirror images of each other’s posture. Bucky isn’t moving, but somehow he’s radiating anxiety. It’s so obvious now that Clint knows how to look for it, that he’s surprised he missed it before. 

 

Steve’s eyebrows do a little dance when the cart rolls past him and he sees his shield laying on it with a bunch of shit welded to it, but he doesn’t otherwise react, luckily. The prongs holding the stone are curved now, Clint notices, and the stone is sitting more upright. And is that. . . duct tape holding everything together? Holy shit, they are in big trouble.

 

“Where are we doing this, doc?” Tony asks.

 

“Surgical suite,” Cho says, stepping out from behind Sam. “It’s all ready, but you boys will have to figure out how to. . . string up my patient.” She pushes past Tony without making eye contact and opens the door to the same room where she stuck the needle in the kid’s back. “I’ll have to remove the I.V. and all the tubes. They won’t fit him if he’s bigger.”

 

They roll the cart in with everyone trailing behind like ducklings. Once they get it in place, Bruce whips out a protractor (is that what it’s called? Clint was asleep in math class the day they covered that part. . . and all the rest of the parts too) and measures a bunch of angles. He makes Vision move the stone, over and over, tiny fractions of an inch left, right, no—up a little bit, now down. . . No, back to the right. After ten minutes of this, Tony says, “It’s fine, ok Bruce? It’s fine like that.”

 

“It’s supposed to be 63.7 degrees, but it’s only 63.68,” Bruce mutters, adjusting one of the prongs minutely. “Not good enough. Should be—“

 

“It’s fine. He’ll be ok.”

 

“You don’t know that!”

 

“It’s the best we can do. All we can do is the best we can do. Ok?”

 

Bruce breathes out a puff of air, ruffling his bangs. “Yeah. Ok,” he says, and stuffs the protractor back into his pocket. He rubs his hands on his pantlegs and repeats, “Yeah, ok. Yeah,” as he backs up. Tony squeezes his shoulders, a little too hard, based on the expression on Bruce’s face.

 

Cho tells everyone to step aside so they can bring the gurney through, but she doesn’t ask them to leave yet, even though they are all in the way so the nurses have to step around them to arrange the medical equipment for the kid, who lies unmoving like a corpse. They’ve got the cape all neatly spread out on top of the blanket, and the kid is so small his body barely makes a ripple in it. Clint swallows hard and makes himself concentrate on the slight rise and fall of his chest, in time with the whooshing of the ventilator. _He’s alive he’s alive he’s alive_ , stop thinking such morbid thoughts. He’s _alive_.

 

 

Next it’s time for a fun discussion about how to hang little Thor from the wall! Tony thinks he should be naked. “He was the first time,” he points out (Clint hadn’t known that little detail, and now he wishes he could forget it.), “We don’t know what factors might make a difference.”

 

Bucky takes a step closer to the bed, subtly putting his body between Tony and the kid. His eyes are hard, his breathing is irregular, and Clint can see his jaw muscles jumping, all of which point to the inevitability that Tony is about to get his arm broken. Clint just as subtly puts his body between Bucky and Tony, not that Clint could actually _stop_ Bucky if he decided to attack. Clint would just get killed _first_.

 

“We can put a big gown on him. A _really_ big gown,” Clint suggests, watching Bucky out of the corner of his eye, “that way it will still fit him if—when he’s bigger, you know.”

 

Tony starts to protest, “We don’t know—“ but then Bucky lets out a low growl, causing Tony to reconsider. “Maybe—maybe a gown’s not such a bad idea. Now, for the shackles—”

 

Another low growl from Bucky.

 

“—I hear you, Terminator, but this part is non-negotiable. Positioning is an integral part of the set-up.”

 

“How are you planning to make sure the shackles won’t hurt him once his wrists. . . grow?” Steve asks. He has stepped between Tony and Bucky too. Or maybe he’s trying to stay between Tony and the kid. Probably both, knowing Steve.

 

“Well, we were considering making them out of the same material as Bruce’s pants. . .” Tony jokes. No one laughs. Clint notices out of the corner of his eye that Sam and Natasha are also moving until they too are positioned between Tony and Thor. Wanda stays off to the side, but her fingers are glowing red.

 

Tony raises his eyebrows at the entire team which is now staring him down in silence. “Oookay, that was a joke, people. Remember jokes? Ha ha?” Tony cocks his head and contemplates the crowd lined up against him. His tongue pushes into his cheek. “Ok, I guess not. Huh.”

 

“Answer the question, Stark,” Bucky snarls.

 

“They’re made from an expandable material! Like my suit! Do you think I wouldn’t have thought of that??” 

 

No one answers. They all just stare at him, waiting.

 

“Of course I thought of that! Bruce, show them quick, before Captain Hook here strangles me.”

 

“They’re titanium alloy,” Bruce says quickly, holding up a little cuff, “and the hexagonal plates can rearrange themselves, like this,” he pulls on the cuff and it expands to almost triple its original size with a _click-click-click_ sound. “It won’t hurt him, I promise. I tested it myself.”

 

“How?” Bucky says, eyes narrowed. He’s still clearly not convinced.

 

“Well, me and the big guy.”

 

“Right, so you get it now? Everything’s ok? We ready to get started? Great.” Tony turns his back on Bucky, which Clint thinks is probably a mistake, and struts over to the far wall. “Bruce, let’s attach the magnetic fasteners here,” he says, reaching up to point at two apparently random spots on the wall. “Doc? Go ahead and get him ready while we finish getting set up.”

 

Bruce pulls a box from the lower shelf of the cart and takes it over to Tony. Kneeling down, he starts taking out chains that look like they’re made from the same material as the cuffs. He doesn’t seem to know which end to hook them to, which doesn’t inspire confidence.

 

“Ok, I’m going to start removing equipment now,” Cho says, “I’ll do the breathing tube last.”

 

Everyone steps aside to let her and the nurses get to Thor. After she slips by Bucky, he steps in behind her and takes Thor’s small hand in his metal hand while she works. He lays his flesh hand lightly on Thor’s forehead and smooths back a curl with his thumb. “It’s ok, squirt, Doc’s not gonna hurt you.”

 

Cho removes the gauze sleeve first, then the I.V., and replaces it with a folded gauze pad and a bandage to cover the little bubble of blood left behind. Next she slides out the feeding tube and drops it into a tray held by the nurse who got Thor’s bath ready (what’shername? Like Betsy, or Bertha or something?). Finally she slides the sleeves of the gown off his arms, exposing his too-thin chest. All of his ribs stand out painfully, and his belly sinks in between each mechanically-assisted breath. The nurse with the headscarf (Amina? Amira? Elvira? No, probably not that) unfolds a huge robe and drapes it over Thor. They thread his skinny arms through the gaping sleeves and tie it at the neck, which still leaves an opening wide enough that his whole body could slip through. The robe is so big, they could fit at least four little Thors in there stacked up on top of each other. Clint doesn’t see how it is going to fit even grown-up Thor. He couldn’t have been that big, could he? Clint thinks he would remember him being that big.

 

Finally her hand hovers over the ventilator tube. “All right, are you guys ready?” she asks, looking up at Tony.

 

“Hang on one second, Doc, let me get ready for the transfer.” He crosses to the gurney, where Bucky reluctantly moves to the side to let him get to Thor. “Nope, you stay here, Terminator.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because you are going to hold Thor up so we can get the shackles on him.”

 

“Why me?”

 

“Because Clint’s a midget.”

 

“Hey!” Clint objects. “I’m the same height you are.”

 

“Ha! Good one. No, I need him up higher. Otherwise when the golden retriever puppy turns back into a big dawg, he’s gonna end up on his knees. T2, you get ready to pick him up and hold him up on your shoulder so we can. . . string him up? Isn’t that how you put it, doc?” Tony says in his usual flippant tone to Bucky, who has taken a step back.

 

“Fuck that. I ain’t helping you chain the kid to the wall.”

 

Tony pauses and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the flippancy is gone, replaced by an ocean of pain. “All right. . . Look, Bucky. . . I wouldn’t do this if it weren’t necessary. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure he doesn’t get hurt. I can’t promise I’ll succeed, but I promise to try my best. Ok?”

 

Bucky blinks at him but doesn’t say anything.

 

“Ooookay,” Tony intones, “So I’m going to take that as a yes. Get ready to pick him up.”

 

Bucky still doesn’t move. After a moment, Tony takes hold of Bucky’s hands and positions them to be ready to receive the kid. “Yep, just like that. Ok, Doc, pull the plug!”

 

“Tony!” Nat exclaims.

 

“The tube! Pull the tube.”

 

“Ok, on three,” Cho says, looking around to make sure there are no objections or last minute changes. When no one responds, she says, “One. . .two. . . three,” and pulls out the breathing tube. One of the nurses shuts off the machine, and suddenly it is eerily quiet in the room. Everyone freezes, waiting. Clint counts off in his head almost fifteen endless seconds before Thor takes a shallow, wheezy breath through his mouth.

 

“Good,” Cho says, “All right, Tony, you can help me pick him up.”

 

Together, Tony and Dr. Cho lift the kid and settle him into Bucky’s arms, which still haven’t moved. As soon as they rest Thor’s head against Bucky’s shoulder, he wraps his metal arm around Thor’s back and cradles his head with his fingers, carefully like he’s made of glass.

 

“All right. Bruce and Vision, you guys ready?”

 

“Uh, yeah, just gotta adjust these chains a little,” Bruce responds. “His arms are shorter than I thought. Need a bit more slack.” He tugs on one of the chains and it lengthens with a click-click-click sound.

 

“Vision, how about you?”

 

Vision, who is bent over the stone set-up adjusting a piece of tape, says, “Finishing up final positioning, sir. As soon as the child is in place, I will be able to make the final adjustments.”

 

“Fellas?” Bucky says. Everyone ignores him.

 

“Need some help, Bruce?” Steve asks, going over to where Bruce is struggling to lengthen the second chain.

 

“Sure. Pull on that end and I’ll pull on this one,” Bruce says, handing one end of the chain to Steve.

 

“It would be easier if I just did it.” Steve takes the chain from Bruce’s hand and easily stretches it out at least another foot. “Is that long enough?”

 

“I think so. Tony, what do you—?”

 

“Guys?” comes Bucky’s voice again, a little more urgently.

 

“Just a second, Tin man, almost done,” Tony says on his way over to inspect Bruce’s work. He whips out his phone and measures the length of the chain electronically. “Maybe another ten centimeters or so. Think you can manage that, Spangles? Maybe you need Flyboy there to help you?”

 

“I got you, Steve,” Sam puts in.

 

“Ha ha. I can—“

 

Whatever Steve was about to say is interrupted by a croaky little voice. “Uncuh Bucky?”

 

Everyone in the room freezes, and slowly all the heads turn toward Bucky and Thor, whose body is still limp but his face is scrunched up and his eyes are open to slits. Bucky is gently patting his back while rocking him back and forth like the two of them are the only people in the room.

 

“Hey, squirt, everything’s all right. Just go back to sleep, ok?”

 

“My froat hurts,” Thor whispers.

 

“Sorry, pal. I wish I could make it feel better.”

 

“I wuv you, Uncuh Bucky.”

 

“I love you too, squirt.”

 

“Sing me dat wuwwaby.”

 

“. . . Ok. . .” Bucky rests his cheek against Thor’s hair and begins to sing, softly into his ear. His voice is rough, but the boy can clearly carry a tune. “ _I see the moon and the moon sees me, shining through the leaves of the old oak tree. Oh, let the light that shines on me, shine on the one I love._ ”

 

Clint glances around the room. Sam and Nat both have tears streaking down their faces that they are making no attempt to wipe away. Bruce has his hand over his mouth and his eyes are brimming. Tony’s eyes are on the ground. Even Wanda has her gaze lowered and her hands folded like she’s praying—nope, not praying, she’s videoing Bucky with her phone, of course.

 

Thor’s eyes have closed, but his head moves fitfully and his labored breathing is still irregular. Bucky strokes his hair as he continues singing, while swaying back and forth almost like he’s dancing. _“Over the mountain, over the sea, back where my heart is longing to be. Oh, let the light that shines on me, shine on the one I love._ ”

 

Steve is staring at Bucky like he’s seeing a ghost. Maybe he is. _The Ghost of Bucky Past_. Clint remembers Steve describing Bucky to them, before they found him again. In Steve’s stories, Bucky was always larger than life; the suave, debonair ladies’ man who could charm the little birdies out of the trees. So different from the surly wreck of a man they all finally got a chance to meet, who silently glared and snapped at people who got too close like an abused dog. Now here’s Bucky tenderly singing and rocking the kid back to sleep, not even seeming to notice or care that the entire team is gathered around staring at him.

 

“Ok, Stark, I think he’s back asleep now,” Bucky whispers. When no one answers, he looks up and seems to notice for the first time that he is the object of everyone’s attention. “What’s the matter? We gonna do this or what?”

 


	33. Goodbye Hello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey Presto change-o Little Thor becomes Big Thor. So why doesn't he look familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. I decided I needed two more after this one, so the finish line has changed, sorry/not sorry.

* * *

 

Once everything’s all set up and ready to go, it’s all up to Vision. All the preparation, the best medical care money can buy, the finest scientific minds, none of it means shit now. It comes down to an accidental android with a rock in his head, and a few pieces of duct tape.

 

Clint wants to see the kid’s face one more time, but his head is bent forward and his hair is hanging down over his eyes. All Clint can see is his sweet rounded jaw, and his clavicle, thin and fragile as a bird’s bone, peeking out of the neck opening of the gown. 

 

One of the nurses picks up Thor’s cape off the gurney and gives it to Sam, who turns around and hands it to Clint. It’s heavy and still warm from Thor’s body. Clint folds it over his arm where it hangs like a dead weight. It feels wrong to take the cape away and leave its owner suspended, vulnerable and nearly naked without it. Everything about this feels wrong, but the group is already moving out to the waiting room, so Clint lets himself be pulled along with the crowd.

 

Bucky perches on the edge of a chair and leans forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands hanging down. He looks calmer than Clint had expected under the circumstances, although his hair is covering half his face. Steve sits beside him, close enough to touch but not touching. Sam drops into the seat on the other side of Steve. There is an empty seat on the other side of Bucky, and Clint’s about to sit in it, but then he catches a glimpse, through the straggly hair, of the muscle at Bucky’s temple jumping as he grinds his teeth. His metal fingers curl and uncurl in his lap. Maybe he’s thinking of how he’s going to crush Tony’s skull if Thor gets hurt by this insanity. Clint decides he’d be better off in the row opposite them, where he’s out of the line of fire if Bucky blows up. Nat, on the other hand, just drops right into the seat next to Bucky without a care in the world. She’s on his left, which means his metal arm is right next to her. It’s not safe, and Clint doesn’t like it, but what can he do? Telling Nat she should move is likely to get him a widow’s bite to the throat.

 

Tony sits on the other side of the room, wisely out of punching range. He’s perched on the edge of his chair too, knee jangling anxiously. He’s holding a StarkPad which he is pretending to read, but really he has his eyes cut to his right. When Clint follows his line of sight, he realizes he’s watching Bruce, who is standing in the corner of the room, arms wrapped so tightly around his StarkPad Clint is surprised it hasn’t been crushed. His eyes are bright and just a little wild. The veins are popping out of his neck, which is stained green around the edges. Shit, if he hulks out in this confined space, he could kill them all.

 

“Wanda,” Tony says in an undertone. When Wanda looks up, Tony jerks his head toward Bruce. “Like we talked about.”

 

Wanda nods tersely and goes over to stand next to Bruce. His eyes dart to her then quickly away, skipping around the room. “I’m all right,” he mutters, “I don’t need a babysitter.”

 

“You’ve got one anyway,” Wanda informs him flatly. She has her arms folded, but her fingers are twitching, a reminder of what she could do if needed. Bruce shakes his head, but he doesn’t argue the point further, luckily. At this moment, a Hulk-out is really the last thing they need.

 

Clint occupies his mind by counting in his head, but it’s tough because he keeps getting distracted. One. . .two. . . three. . . what’s that noise? Just the lounge refrigerator humming. . . four. . . five. . . Shoulda wrapped him in his cape so he’ll be warm enough. Maybe it’s not too late. . . eight. . . nine. . . ten. . . eleven. . . Would the cape have really changed the outcome? Did they even test that?. . . what number was I on? . . . ten. . .This is a mistake. Should’ve given the immune therapy more time. It’s less risky than chaining him to a wall and shooting a laser at his head. . . fourteen. . . fifteen. . . Time to tell Tony to stop. It’s too risky. It’s not—

 

There’s definitely a humming sound coming from the surgical suite now. It starts out soft and low, then slowly grows in pitch and loudness until it sounds like a motorcycle engine at full throttle. It’s a little annoying, but it’s not so bad. He’s even getting used to the noise now. Maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe it’ll—

 

Just as he’s deciding it’s going to be fine, the air is split by an eardrum-shattering scream, high-pitched and louder than an emergency siren. It drowns out all other sound. Clint and Bucky exchange a wide-eyed, horrified stare. Bucky’s hands go over his ears, and Clint mirrors him, pressing his palms hard to try to block out the horrible sound, but it doesn’t work. The scream goes on and on, crowding out all other thought. Shouldn’t he have to stop for a breath sometime? Shouldn’t he need a break? It doesn’t stop why won’t it stop oh god make it stop please please please. . .

 

Steve is half-turned in his seat, eyebrows scrunched, watching Bucky . He has his arm on the back of Bucky’s chair and his fingers are hovering over Bucky’s shoulder like he wants to touch him, so why doesn’t he? Just _touch him_ already.

 

The scream continues, but now it’s overlaid by the thunder, and with each boom, Bucky tenses tighter. His hands are pressed so hard against his ears that the knuckles on his flesh hand have turned bone white. Veins stand out on the sides of his neck and at his temple. 

 

From the other side of Steve, Sam puts his arm around Steve’s back and pushes Steve’s arm down onto Bucky’s shoulder. Clint tenses, thinking Bucky is going to yank away which would put him right in Nat’s lap. But instead Bucky curls in toward Steve’s chest and presses his forehead hard against Steve’s shoulder. He’s making a noise in his throat, a low growl, barely audible over the din. Steve’s arms go around him like a protective cocoon, although it’s unclear who is protecting whom, because they both have fistfuls of each other’s shirts, and Steve’s face looks just as pained as Bucky’s.

 

The lights flicker as another, even louder crack of thunder sounds just outside the window. They all flinch at that one.

 

“What happens if the power goes out?” Sam asks.

 

“It won’t,” Tony assures them. “I’ve got secondary power on the medical bays now. It should be fine.“

 

He is interrupted by a lightning strike against the window, which is webbed with bright white light for a second, and then power does indeed go out, plunging the room into near darkness. After a few seconds, emergency lighting comes up, bathing them all in a bluish glow which reflects off the tear tracks on Steve’s face. 

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Bruce says, voice raised over the constant thunder and screams and the noise of the rain lashing against the windows. “It doesn’t matter because Vision is his own power source. He would let us know if there was a—“ He breaks off, because at that moment, the screams are suddenly cut short and the last peal of thunder dies away. Even the rain lets up and the humming stops.

 

In the quiet that follows, the whole group sits completely silent, waiting. Bucky’s head comes up. Every face is turned toward the door to the surgical suite, but it stays shut. Clint has to remind himself to breathe. No more screaming is a good thing, right? That means it’s over and he’s not in pain anymore, right? Or he could be dead, Clint’s brain reminds him helpfully. Yes, brain, very helpful, thank you.

 

After nearly a full minute, the lights come back up with a whoosh. “Friday, what’s going on?” Tony says. His voice sounds outwardly calm, but Clint picks up on a desperate edge to it.

 

A little chime sounds, then Friday’s voice says pleasantly, “System reboot in process. Please stand by.”

 

Not knowing what else to do, they obediently sit and wait. Tony’s knee is bouncing anxiously. Bucky’s face is expressionless, but Steve has a fistful of the shoulder of his shirt as if he’s trying to hold him in the seat. Clint’s torn between thinking they should just go ahead and go in there to see what’s happening, and wanting to run away. What if Thor’s hurt beyond repair? What if he’s dead? What if—

 

Suddenly Tony pops up to his feet. “Fuck this, I’m going in there.” Shaking off Steve’s hand, Bucky rises and stalks after him, with everyone else on his heels. Clint, in the middle of the group, can only see the backs of broad shoulders at first, but then they all stop dead inside the doorway and the crowd parts enough for him to catch a glimpse of the figure chained to the wall. . . 

 

It’s funny what you forget—Clint had forgotten that Thor was so _huge_. Is that even _him_? The gown, which had seemed so enormous on little Thor, now only goes down to mid-thigh. The man hangs by his arms, which are so long that he sags down enough for his knees to almost touch the ground. His head is hanging down, obscuring his face. The hair is too dark, almost brown instead of golden blond. Couldn’t be him, could it?

 

Vision is kneeling next to him, with one hand against his chest. “He is alive,” Vision pronounces. Ok, Clint can breathe again now. How nice.

 

Tony and Bruce hurry over. Bucky stays put, effectively keeping everyone else back. Bruce leans over and peers into the man’s face, while Tony points his phone at him, frowning.

 

“Radiation levels in the safe range,” Tony announces. “Steve, help us get him onto the gurney. Bucky and Sam, you too.”

 

Clint finds himself elbowed to the side, along with Nat and Wanda, as Sam pushes past him from the back of the pack. When Bucky doesn’t move, Sam catches his arm and pulls him across the room, following Steve. Bucky’s face has gone observant, or maybe he’s in shock.

 

“Ok, Bucky and Sam, you guys take that side with Vision. Steve, help me and Bruce get this side. Bucky, grab his leg! Ok, lift on three.”

 

Once they all get into position, Tony says, “One-two-three,” and they all lift without much effect. Clint and Nat hustle over to try to “help”. Clint grabs hold of an arm and pulls, but dang, he's heavy. Clint’s meager efforts aren’t doing much. At least the arm is warm, not burning hot like little Thor had been, so maybe the fever is gone.

 

“Come on, guys, lift!” Tony commands, as if they aren’t already pulling as hard as they can. Bruce’s face is turning green around the edges—if he’d just let the Hulk out, they’d have him on the table in no time. But then Hulk would smash them all, so better not.

 

Clint’s vision goes red around the edges. He hopes he hasn’t popped a blood vessel in his eye or something, but then suddenly it gets a lot easier—did someone else join them? Not that Clint can tell, maybe Steve finally just put his back into it or something. Anyway, they manage to lift Thor’s limp body high enough for Tony to unhook the chains and slide the cuffs off his wrists. Nat shoves the gurney under him, then they drop him onto it, where his arms and legs flop unceremoniously on it while his head lolls back. Clint get a brief glimpse of his face before the science bros close rank around him. It looks. . . different somehow, not how Clint remembers Big Thor. He gets an impression of dark smudges around the closed eyes and a reddish-purple mark on the forehead, and then his view is blocked by Bruce’s back. He’s holding up his phone and waving it around Thor’s head.

 

“Radiation levels 47 millisieverts,” Bruce reports. Clint has no idea what that means but the rest of them don’t seem to be panicking, so it must not be too bad.

 

“Mass (blah blah blah something about length of femur? Maybe),” Tony babbles, squeezing around Bucky to aim his phone at Thor’s bare leg. Bucky takes a stumbling step back to let him pass. God, Clint wishes they would just speak English already. Is he all right or not?!

 

“Excuse me,” comes Dr. Cho’s voice from behind Clint.

 

Bruce and Tony continue scanning Thor with their phones and muttering to each other, more science shit that Clint doesn’t understand and is growing increasingly impatient with. Cho pushes past Clint, who steps aside to let her pass, and then again to make room for the two nurses who are trailing after her, pushing a cart filled with equipment. Cho approaches the table but stops when she finds Tony and Bruce are blocking her route to Thor. “Excuse me! I need to—”

 

Vision reaches over her head to hand something to Bruce, causing her to duck. Tony and Bruce are both talking over each other now, so completely absorbed in their measurements and science shit that the rest of them might as well not even be there.

 

“EVERYBODY GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY PATIENT!” Dr. Cho shouts over the din. Tony and Vision freeze. Bruce’s shoulders hunch. “Please,” she follows up, in an overly sweet voice. 

 

“Uh, right. Ok, you heard the lady,” Tony says. He grabs hold of Bruce’s sleeve and pulls him back out of the way. As soon as there is a path, Cho says just as sweetly, “Thank you. Amira, go ahead and get an I.V. started. Bonnie, let’s get some vitals.”

 

While the nurse with the headscarf pokes a needle in Thor’s arm, Cho starts taking vitals, saying things like, “Temp101.7BP125over80pulserate97.” She’s talking so fast Clint can’t keep up, but Bonnie is nodding and punching that shit into her StarkPad rapidfire. None of them seems too alarmed at the vitals, so that’s probably good.

 

Cho peels back Thor’s eyelids and shines her light into his eyes, first one and then the other. “Pupils equal and reactive,” she says, clicking her light off and tucking it into her pocket. She pauses a second to brush her thumb over the mark on his forehead. “Let’s get a head CT." Her voice is calm but her eyebrows are furrowed. 

 

“Got it. Do you want to do that first or the other procedure?”

 

Procedure? What procedure? Clint was not informed there was to be a procedure. Nobody tells him _shit_ , even though he feels like he should have been given a chance to sign a permission form, like he did when Lila had her tonsils out.

 

“We’ll do the other one first, since we’re already here. Go ahead and get set up.”

 

Get set up for what?? Clint remembers what “procedure” they were doing the last time they were in this room, and the idea of having to do that again is tying his stomach in knots, because Thor’s not going to be so easy to restrain this time. Judging by the expression on Bucky’s face, he’s thinking the same. His eyes are wide with apprehension and the muscle is jumping at his temple from grinding his teeth.

 

Bonnie snaps on a pair of gloves and starts setting up a tray, while Dr. Cho gestures to Steve. “Steve and Sam, I need help rolling him onto his side. Bucky, you too,” she calls to Bucky, who has taken several steps toward the door. Bucky swallows hard, but he does stalk back to help.

 

It takes all of them pushing together to get Thor rolled up onto his side because he’s a dead weight. By the time they get him there, Bonnie has the rest of the tray set up, with the big-ass needle prepped and ready to go. Clint can’t take his eyes off it, but the rest of them don’t seem to have noticed it yet, except for Nat, who nudges Clint with her shoulder.

 

“What the hell?” she whispers. Clint shakes his head. Amira is now swabbing Thor’s lower spine with iodine.

 

“Ok, we’re almost ready,” Cho says, “Bucky and Clint, I need you to go scrub your hands. Everyone else is going to have to wait in the lobby.” Bonnie pushes a chair up next to Thor’s head for one of them to sit in, but Bucky takes a step back, toward the lobby, not the scrub room. It almost looks like he’s trying to hide behind Steve. Clint has to admit he understands the feeling. He’d hide behind Nat too, if only she were a little taller.

 

“Wait, what are you—?” Sam’s gaze flits back and forth between the needle and Thor’s orange-stained back. “Are you planning to do a spinal tap?”

 

“Yes, and I need help holding him still. That’s why I need Bucky and Clint.”

 

“Doc, this ain’t gonna work,” Bucky protests. “We can’t hold him still.”

 

“I can stay and help,” Steve says immediately. 

 

“I’ll stay too,” Sam chimes in.

 

“I can get the suit,” Tony offers.

 

“I’ll stay,” says Nat.

 

“And I,” Vision adds.

 

Bruce steps forward, shaking his head. “There’s no way we can hold him. Even all of us working together can’t do it. He’s too strong. Helen, what will happen if he moves?”

 

“If the needle punctures a blood vessel, it could lead to a hematoma. If it punctures the spinal cord, it could results in paralysis. Are you sure you can’t all work together?”

 

“He’s stronger than all of us put together. And he could accidentally electrocute us all, even without regaining consciousness.”

 

From behind the group, Wanda clears her throat. Clint hopes she’s not getting sick. If she’s got germs, she needs to get the hell out of there so she doesn’t make the problem worse.

 

“What about the big guy?” Tony asks.

 

“Even if the big guy will come out, I don’t think he can hold him either. And he can still get thrown across the room by electric shock.”

 

Clint notices Bucky has backed away almost to the door. From the other side, Wanda clears her throat again. Everyone in the group finally turns to look at her. She has a very sour expression on her face and her fingers are sparkling red at the tips. What is her problem anyway??

 

“What is it, Wanda?”

 

Wanda heaves a dramatic sigh. “I. am. telekinetic,” she says through gritted teeth.

 

“Do you think you can hold him?” Steve asks.

 

“Of course I can!”

 

“Why didn’t you say so?” Tony asks.

 

“I would’ve if I could get a word in sideways.”

 

“Edgewise,” Tony corrects her.

 

“What?”

 

“The saying is, ‘get a word in edgewise,’ not sideways,” Tony says, gesturing. Clint is distracted by the door closing silently behind a fleeing Bucky. Dammit!

 

“WHO THE FUCK CARES?” Wanda spits back. Her hands are wreathed in her red magic shit, like sparkly ribbons weaving in and out between her fingers. Beautiful, deadly ribbons. Maybe more like snakes, and she’s Medusa.

 

“Ok, enough debating semantics,” Cho cuts them off. “If Wanda can hold him, then that’s what we’ll do. The rest of you need to clear out so we don’t expose Thor to bacteria during the procedure. Clint, you can stay, and. . . Bucky? Where did Bucky go?”

 

They all look around, as if Bucky might be hiding in the corner somewhere. Of course they don’t see him. Apparently Clint was the only one who noticed him sliding out the door like a junkyard cat. Probably headed back to the gym to work off his feelings.

 

Cho heaves a sigh. “Ok, fine. Clint, go scrub in please. And Wanda, you too, even though you’re not planning to actually touch him. The rest of you, out.”

 

 

Clint scrubs his hands automatically, zombie-like. His face is blank, but his mind is filled with chaotic, tumbling thoughts, like a photo box dumped out. Better hurry back in case Thor wakes up and gets scared—no, wait, Big Thor won’t be scared, will he? Big Thor, who looks. . . wrong somehow, but he doesn’t know why. Clint’s trying to find a clear picture of Thor in his mind, but he keeps coming up with Little Thor. He can’t hear Big Thor’s voice either, only Little Thor’s high-pitched garbled speech. He keeps scrubbing until his hands are numb, until finally Wanda turns off the water.

 

“Are you ok?”

 

“. . . Yes, I’m fine," Clint says, even though his stomach hurts. "Yeah. Let’s—uh—let’s do this.”

 

“Oookay.”

 

“Ok.” But he just stands there, water still dripping from his fingertips, like magic drips from Wanda’s. Wait—if Wanda is going to hold Thor still with her magic, does that mean Clint’s going to be caught up in it too, like a fly in a web? What exactly is she planning to do? 

 

“I’m not planning to read your mind, you know.” Wanda says, handing him a paper towel. It’s like she’s reading his mind or something. Because she’s a _fucking telepath_.

 

“Are you reading my mind right now?”

 

“No, I’m reading your face,” she says blithely as she pulls on her gown. “I don’t need to read minds to know what you’re thinking. You look like you’re sucking on a lemon.”

 

“I always look like that!” Clint protests. “I have RBF. It’s not my fault!”

 

“I don’t know what that means.” She raises her mask and heads out the door back to the surgical suite.

 

“You should know, you have it too,” Clint says, but the door is already closing behind her, so he hustles to follow, back into the bright white room where the man on the bed is not his kid. Why does Clint even need to be there? It’s not like grown-up Thor is going to need his hand held so he doesn’t get scared. Clint is willing to wager that grown-up Thor has never been scared in his life.

 

They’ve got Thor covered in a thin white sheet. He’s curled up on his side with his knees pulled up. His eyes are closed, apparently unconscious but he’s shivering, like before. Clint is stopped in his tracks by deja vu. The same but not the same. It’s like seeing a picture from your childhood and realizing, _I remembered that tree having pink blossoms but really they’re white. I remember my brother wearing a jacket but actually it was a sweater._ Clint remembered Thor’s hair blonder, and his face, well, different somehow. Rounder jaw, freckles across the nose, a little overbite. . . What did Thor’s jaw used to look like? Damned if Clint knows, just. . . not like that.

 

Cho has a chair pulled up next to the gurney. “Clint, sit here and hold his hand,” she directs him. Hold his hand, like Thor couldn’t crush his fingers like they’re made out of paper. But he sits anyway, and picks up Thor’s limp hand, which is so huge that Clint’s fingers can’t even reach all the way around, and it’s heavy too, a dead weight.

 

“Wanda, are you able to immobilize him while still giving us access to his back?”

 

“Yes.” That’s it, just _Yes_. No information about how exactly she plans to do that. Will Clint be able to move? Or will he be “immobilized” too? 

 

“Ok, we’re ready,” Cho says. She never asked Clint if he was ready, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll never be ready to be paralyzed with magic. The last time Wanda did that to him, he passed out and only came to once he was on the ground.

 

Clint doesn’t even have time to tense up before the hex hits him in the back, enveloping both him and Thor in a red mist that holds them like flies trapped in amber. Clint’s experienced sleep paralysis before—that twilight before waking, when your mind is aware of its surroundings, but your body hasn’t quite caught up yet. It’s disconcerting. His body wants to rebel, but it can’t. Is he even breathing? Wanda wouldn’t keep his lungs from inflating, would she? She knows he needs oxygen to live, right? He tries to take a breath, but the air feels thick and he can’t feel his chest moving. Is the oxygen getting in?? Stay calm, he reminds himself. It’s only for a few minutes. _Yes, you can breathe_. 

 

Cho’s voice, distorted as if it’s being filtered through liquid, says, “Something something _now_.”

 

Clint’s hit with a spike of pain that feels like someone whacked him in the back with a baseball bat, and then a sudden wave of panic and terror washes over him. HURTS HURTS HURTS STOP STOP please stop _can’t breathe can’t breathe_ STOP HUUUUUUURTS!! The walls vibrate from a deep roll of thunder, like a train rumbling through.

 

Then. . . a comforting voice inside his head. **_You’re safe_** , the voice whispers, like a mother to a child. **_We love you. You’re protected. It’s almost over. You’re safe_**. It’s Wanda, Clint realizes, through the fear that is still trying to drown him. That liar.

 

_I thought you weren’t going to read my mind_ , Clint thinks aggressively at the voice.

 

**_I’m not talking to you, долбоёб!_ **

 

What. . . ?

 

**_Thor, you’re safe,_** the voice soothes. ** _Relax. We love you._**  

 

Oh. Right. She’s talking to Thor. Duh.

 

Unfortunately her little pep talk doesn’t work. Even in the windowless room, the thunder still shakes the walls and sets the overhead light fixture swaying. Clint can feel Thor fighting the hex. His hand tightens on Clint’s until he can barely feel his fingers. HURRY UP DOC!

 

“Ok, all done,” Cho says, sounding chipper. Just like that, the red mist evaporates and Clint can breathe again, although the thunder is still booming outside. As he’s sucking in that precious oxygen, he sees her holding up the syringe, which is filled with straw-colored liquid, clear as apple juice. Now _that’s_ what CSF is supposed to look like!

 

As soon as Clint lets go of Thor’s hand, they whisk him away for his head CT, leaving Clint sitting there like an idiot with an annoyed Wanda.

 

“What does dol-boy-yob mean?” he asks.

 

Wanda shakes her head and rolls her eyes at his apparent idiocy, even though it’s not his fault he doesn’t speak Sokovian. “You could’ve helped me!” she barks, but she doesn’t hang around long enough to tell him _how_ he was supposed to help. She’s the telepath, not him! He couldn’t even move! What’s he supposed to do, think soothing thoughts? What good would that do?

 

Clint doesn’t know what else to do, so he sits in the waiting room with the cape wrapped around his shoulders and stares mindlessly at his phone until they bring Thor back, to the same room Little Thor had been in. He’s still in the same bed, although he takes up much more of it now, and he’s still unconscious. At least most of the tubes and wires are gone, and his chest is rising and falling evenly on its own. So why doesn’t he wake up? Is something else wrong?

 

The nurses set up the I.V. and check Thor’s vitals. Then Bonnie pulls up a chair next to one side of the bed, and Amira pulls up another to the other side. They both smile brightly at Clint, then glance around, obviously looking for Bucky. When they don’t find him, their smiles rearrange themselves into something else—sympathy, with a hint of pity around the edges, which is weird. It’s not like Bucky. . . left them or something, like a deadbeat dad.

 

One of the nurses pats Clint on the shoulder as they troop out, leaving Clint alone with Thor. Clint finds himself looking around the room too, as if he’s expecting someone to come tell him what to do. If this were the kid, he’d just sit down in the chair and hold his hand, but he’s not, so he’s feeling a little unsure of his role here. He doesn’t really have jurisdiction over Adult Thor, does he? 

 

When no one appears to give him instructions, Clint pulls the cape tighter around his shoulders and shuffles up next to the bed where he can examine this enormous stranger more closely. The closed eyes are still sunken and ringed with reddish-purple that is nearly as dark as the bruise in the middle of his forehead. Nothing about the face looks familiar. When did his eyebrows get so dark? Was that the shape his jaw used to be? WHERE DID THE FRECKLES GO? Clint can’t remember this face. All he can see in his mind is the sweet rounded jaw and turned-up nose of Little Thor. His kid. _His_. And he's _gone_.

 

Thor’s still only covered with a thin sheet pulled up to his chest, leaving his arms bare. The shoulder of the gown has slipped down a little, exposing his clavicle, which no longer looks fragile and bird-like but still stands out sharply under his pale skin. Dark bruises ring both wrists from the cuffs, even though Tony promised them they wouldn’t hurt him. The bruises on his face and wrists make him look vulnerable, and Clint doesn’t like it. Shrugging off the cape, he spreads it out over Thor’s body, which is now so huge that the cape barely even comes up to his broad shoulders. Oh well, it will have to do.

 

With a sigh, Clint drops into the chair next to the bed. Ok, time to worry! What are we gonna stew about this time, brain? Hey, let’s freak out about why Thor doesn’t wake up! Did the treatment really work? What did they find on the head CT? Will anyone even tell Clint, since he’s no longer Thor’s de facto guardian?

 

* * *

 

_Text from_

_Dr. Cho_

_To Clint and Bucky_

 

_Cho: I got the test results back. Can you come to my office?_

 

**I’m on my way**

 

_Bucky: why_

 

_Cho: So I can share the test results with you_

 

_Bucky: no i mean why me. im not next of kin_

 

_Cho: I guess it’s up to you then, but I would appreciate it if you came._

 

* * *

 

**Text to Bucky: You have 5 minutes to get your ass to Cho’s office, or I swear to god I’ll rip your arm off and beat you with it.**

 

He’s on his way to Cho’s office when Bucky responds. _You cant_

 

**Try me**

 

* * *

 

Clint and Cho sit in tense silence and wait, for five minutes, then six. Every time Cho tries to start her spiel, Clint shakes his head. “Let’s just give him another minute or two. I’m sure he’ll be here in a minute,” he says with a grim smile, even though he is far from sure that Bucky will actually show, “I don’t want you to have to say it twice.” He’s trying to hide his anxiety about what, exactly, she will be telling them, but it’s hard because his knee insists on bouncing up and down, and his mouth is so dry he can’t help but swallow compulsively.

 

Finally, after seven minutes, Bucky saunters in, with Steve on his heels. They’re both wearing workout clothes with twin rings of sweat around their necks. Steve smiles apologetically, while Cho says, “I’ll get another chair.”

 

Steve shakes his head. “No, I’m fine,” he says. He points to the vacant chair, and Bucky slides into it without a word. He sits with his arms folded, expressionless, carefully not meeting anyone’s eye, while Steve parks his bulk in the doorway. His shoulders are almost wide enough to touch the doorframe on either side. He crosses his arms too and his face takes on its _ain’t taking no shit_ expression. 

 

Cho, acting like all of this is _totally normal_ , smiles and says, “Ok, great, well, I have good news for you! All the tests came back negative, which means the infection is gone.”

 

Clint feels like a weight has dropped off his shoulders. “That’s great!” he exclaims with a huge grin. 

 

Steve chimes in with, “Wonderful news!” He’s looking at Bucky expectantly, but Bucky doesn’t move. The eye that is visible through his hair remains dispassionate. What the heck is wrong with him?

 

“So. Uh. When do you think he might wake up?” Clint asks, still watching Bucky out of the corner of his eye.

 

“That’s hard to say. As far as we can tell, based on all the tests, he’s just sleeping. He’ll wake up when he’s ready.”

 

“We done?” Bucky says shortly, leaning forward in his chair.

 

“Um. Yes, I guess so,” Cho confirms. “I’ll let the rest of the team know via text. I just wanted. . .” she trails off as Bucky stands up abruptly. He and Steve have a silent standoff for a few seconds before Steve steps aside and lets Bucky leave. “. . . to tell you first,” Cho finishes. “Everything ok?”

 

“Probably,” Steve says, still looking out the door at Bucky’s receding back. “Maybe. I don’t know.” He turns back to Cho, says politely, “Thank you, Doctor,” and follows Bucky out of the room, leaving Clint and Cho staring after them. Clint hopes Cho can tell him what’s going on, but she looks just as confused as he does.

 

“Well, I guess I’d better get back,” Clint says awkwardly, “I left Thor with Wanda, and I hear she doesn’t know how to snuggle properly.”

 

Cho, who is rummaging around behind her desk, pops her head up long enough to give him a raised eyebrow.

 

“Just a rumor, not speaking from personal experience,” Clint says, and gets the smile he was hoping for. “On a related note, do you have any idea what ‘dol-boy-yob’ means?” 

 

“That’s Sokovian, right? I think it means dickhead.” 

 

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

 

Still grinning wryly, Cho holds out a white plastic sack with the words PATIENT BELONGINGS on the side. “Here, this is for you.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“I saved them for you,” she says, so Clint takes the bag and pulls open the drawstring. The smell hits him first—a heady mix of raspberries and chocolate and unwashed kid. Inside he finds the clothes Thor was wearing when they brought him to the medical bay, after he passed out in Bucky’s arms. God, the Bucky shirt looks so tiny. It wouldn’t even fit onto one of Thor’s arms now.

 

“Thanks, Doc. I was wondering where these went.”

 

“We had to cut the necks of the shirts to get them over his head, but I told them not to cut all the way down. I know he loves—loved them.”

 

_Loved_. As in past tense. As in might as well have cut them open because his kid will never wear them again.

 

* * *

 

**Text to Bucky:**

**When are you coming back?**

 

* * *

 

The meningitis is gone, but Thor doesn’t wake up. Cho insists he’s just sleeping. Apparently, growing that fast is exhausting. Plus he apparently has to make up for all those times he kept Clint up half the night spouting toddler theories and causing thunderstorms. So he sleeps, but not exactly peacefully. There’s lots of shifting on the bed and shivering and making little noises that can only be described as whimpering. Clint keeps calling the nurses in because he must be in pain, right? To make those kinds of noises, he’s gotta be in pain.

 

The nurses are no fucking help. They just say, “His vitals are all stable,” then they tuck the cape in around him so his arms are bare again even though he’s obviously cold. As soon as they sashay out, Clint untucks the cape and covers up Thor’s arms again, and lays his hand against Thor’s forehead to check for a fever again even though they just took his temperature. He feels warm, but then again, he always feels warm. Or at least, the kid always did. Clint doesn’t remember whether Big Thor felt warm or not. It’s not like Big Thor ever sat on his lap or snuggled up next to him at night. They didn’t have that kind of relationship, did they? Suddenly feeling awkward, Clint drops his hand and sits back down in the chair. Thor is still whimpering and his head shifts from side to side but there's nothing Clint can do about it. If this were the kid, Clint would pick him up and rock him, but he's not. His kid is gone and he's never coming back, so Clint's just gotta accept that and move on. Should be easy, right? Right. It's not.

 

* * *

 

Another night of sitting vigil. At least one of them is getting sleep. Clint spends it texting Laura, listening to Thor whimper like a kicked puppy and harassing the nurses to give him pain meds, which they refuse to do. “He’s not in distress.” Fuck that, Clint grumbles as he’s covering up Thor’s arms again. What is wrong with these fucking nurses? Can’t they see he’s cold?

 

In the morning, while holding Thor’s hand in a vain attempt to calm him, and watching his profile for any sign of waking, Clint suddenly realizes why Thor’s jaw didn’t look familiar—it’s because he’s never seen it before. It’s always been hidden behind a beard. Now a thin layer of reddish-blond stubble is sprouting around the edges, so the beard will be back soon, and Clint will probably never see his jaw or chin again.

 

He takes a picture, and then immediately feels guilty and deletes it.

 

* * *

 

**Text to Bucky:**

**Anytime you want to come by would be great. Anytime. I’m here day or night.**

 

* * *

 

Bucky doesn’t come back, so Clint keeps his butt parked in the “easy” chair on the far side of the bed, while others come and go. Nat brings him food. Bruce brings him coffee. Sam brings him a blanket. Steve brings troubled eyebrows.

 

Clint’s half-asleep when Steve, who has been sitting silent and motionless for over an hour, suddenly says, “Do you know what’s wrong with Bucky?”

 

Clint sits up and wipes the cobwebs out of his eyes. “Wrong with him? No, I haven’t even seen him since yesterday. Why?”

 

Steve glances at Thor’s sleeping face, then leans in and says in an undertone, “He’s been working out non-stop. I tried to get him to come shopping with me but he didn’t even answer me.”

 

“You don’t say.”

 

“Yeah, he needs some new jeans. His old ones have _holes_ in them. I told him Tony will pay for clothes but he doesn’t even want to look. Then he stuck some sort of chart in front of my face and barked at me to pick one.”

 

“A chart. . .?”

 

“Yeah, like all these emotions, I guess. I didn’t even know what half of them meant. He wanted me to pick an emotion, but what about him? He acts like he doesn’t even HAVE any emotions.”

 

“I’m pretty sure he’s got emotions.”

 

“Not according to him.”

 

“Well, maybe if you went first, told him how you were feeling, he’d open up a little. Maybe part of what he’s feeling is worried about _you_.”

 

“That’s ridiculous. He hasn’t been here at all?”

 

“Nope. I texted him a couple of times. No reply, not a big surprise.”

 

Steve’s jaw sets. “Huh.”  _Uh-oh, Buck-o, you in trouble now_.

 

* * *

 

The next time Clint wakes up, it’s to the sound of twangy, tinny, upbeat music coming from somewhere to his right. He cracks open an eye to see Bucky sitting in the folding chair on the other side of Thor’s bed. Bucky’s head is bent down, with hair hanging over his face. When Clint sits up a little straighter, he sees that Bucky has his phone in his lap and he’s swiping at it with his flesh hand.

 

“Hey,” Clint says.

 

It’s a few seconds before Bucky grunts in acknowledgement, but he doesn’t look up. The phone makes _clinking plunking popping_ noises that sound familiar, but Clint can't quite place them. “What are you playing?”

 

That gets him a shrug, Bucky still doesn’t look up. More swiping. Doesn’t look like Fruit Ninja this time. The movements are too slow and deliberate. Clint leans over Thor a little until he can see the screen. Candy Crush? Really?

 

Clint’s starting to get impatient, when Bucky finally tosses the phone onto the side table and says, “I don’t get that game.”

 

“What do you mean? I think you have to match up three of the same candies.”

 

“No, I mean what is the fucking point?”

 

“Oh! No idea, man. I don’t get it either.”

 

Thor makes a little whimpering noise of pain again. Clint’s about to call the nurse and _make_ them give him pain meds this time, but Bucky just takes hold of Thor’s hand with his metal one and Thor calms right down. Bucky doesn’t even seem to notice, even though that’s a fucking miracle right there. “I’m on like level 100 or something and it’s just the same fucking thing over and over.” Is he still talking about the game? Doesn’t he know he just accomplished the impossible?

 

“Uh. . . You played a hundred levels even though you don’t like it?”

 

“Well I gotta beat Stevie,” Bucky points out, like it’s obvious. Of course it’s obvious. Clint’s distracted by Bucky’s silver thumb brushing back and forth across the back of Thor’s hand in a soothing motion. Thor’s breathing is slow and rhythmic and his brow is smooth.

 

“How are you doing that?”

 

“Doing what?”

 

“Getting him to calm down like that. He’s been acting like he’s in pain for two days, and now that you’re here he’s fine.”

 

Bucky looks non-plussed. “You just gotta hold his hand.”

 

“I tried that, didn’t work for me.”

 

“You don’t know how to do it right.”

 

“Oh? Well, apparently you do. Too bad you weren’t here the past couple of days.”

 

Bucky shifts uncomfortably. “I been busy.”

 

“Yeah? Doing what? Working out?”

 

“Maybe. And other stuff.”

 

“Like trying to get Steve to talk about his emotions when you won’t even talk about your own?”

 

Bucky’s eyes go hard and defensive. “How do you know about that?”

 

“Steve told me. He said you stuck the chart in his face. That’s not how it’s supposed to work. It’s supposed to be mutual.”

 

“Mutual, huh? Well, what about you then?”

 

“What about me?”

 

“You keep saying I gotta talk about my emotions, but what about yours? You got any emotions?”

 

Uh, no, that is unfair. Clint’s emotions are not under discussion here. Are they? “My emotions are irrelevant,” he says.

 

“Why are they irrelevant? How do _you_ feel, Clint?”

 

Clint blinks. This is _unfair_. He’s not the one who needs to talk about his feelings. It’s nobody’s business that he feels this keen sense of loss, like he’s grieving for someone who is lying _right there_. Nope, Clint can’t talk about that or he might lose it. Add in sleep deprivation and lack of proper nutrition, and it’s enough to push him over the edge. Suddenly he can feel his eyes stinging, and that is not how this conversation is supposed to go.

 

“. . . Clint? Uh. . . Are you. . . ok?”

 

“I’m fine,” Clint says through gritted teeth. “I’m _fine_ , and we’re not talking about me. Seriously, what is wrong with you?”

 

“You’re asking what’s wrong with _me_? What’s wrong with you?? You say I gotta talk about my emotions, but you just stand there looking like you’re about to cry then you tell me you’re _fine_?? You’re as bad as Stevie!”

 

Luckily, Clint doesn’t have to answer that, because at that moment a deep, raspy voice croaks, “Clint?” He glances down and finds Thor’s eyes, blue as the ocean, looking back up at him.

 

 


	34. 'Cooters and fucks redux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor's awake, and he's fine. He's just fine. Ignore the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think only one more chapter to go! I can't believe I've been writing this story for well over a year now. Keep in mind that I drafted it before Ragnarok or Infinity War came out, so in my timeline, Loki is alive.

* * *

 

 

“Hey, Thor, it’s all right,” Clint reassures him instantly, stepping up closer to the bed. He expects Bucky will do the same, but Bucky has dropped Thor’s hand like it’s hot and taken a step back.

 

Thor looks around, brow furrowed in confusion. His eyes sort of skip over Bucky, then jump back to Clint. “Am I—“ he starts in a hoarse voice, then clears his throat and tries again, “—am I in the medical bay?”

 

“Yeah. Dr. Cho should be in in a minute. How do you feel?”

 

“All right. Thirsty.”

 

“Oh. Um. . .” Clint looks around for a water pitcher, but doesn’t find one. He’s about to give up when Bucky puts a bottle in his hand. “Oh. Here you go.” Now why didn’t Bucky give that to Thor himself? But no, he’s backing up again.

 

Thor props himself up on his elbow and takes the bottle, which practically disappears in his hand. He takes a drink, a small sip at first, then upends the bottle and starts gulping it down so fast Clint’s afraid he’s going to choke.

 

“Hang on there, pal,” Clint says, putting his hand over Thor’s to slow him down. Thor takes one last swallow, coughs, hands Clint the bottle, then starts trying to move his legs over to the side of the bed. He looks a little shaky—this doesn’t seem like a good idea. Clint puts his hand on Thor’s shoulder in a vain attempt to hold him down. “You should probably wait for the doc.” Thor’s skin is warm, but not fever-hot anymore. More like how Little Thor usually felt.

 

“Why? I feel fine.” _Shit_ his voice sounds weird. Has it always been that deep? Thor moves from his elbows to trying to sit all the way up. His biceps are trembling with the effort. There is no way he’s ready to get up.

 

“Just hang on a second, ok?” Clint urges him. Thor pays him no mind (different size, same attitude) as he pushes the cape down and starts disentangling his feet. If Thor tries to stand up, Clint is pretty sure he’s going to topple over and there’s no way Clint can catch him. Maybe with Bucky’s help, but Bucky is all the way over by the door now, and his eyes have gone observant again. Shit, he’s about to bolt, isn’t he? Clint gives him Laura’s patented stink eye, but Bucky’s gaze is fixed on a spot just over Clint’s left shoulder so he’s not affected by the death ray. Unless maybe Clint’s doing it wrong. 

 

Despite Clint’s hand pushing down on his shoulder, Thor manages to get the cape untangled and sits up the rest of the way. Putting his legs over the side, he slides off the edge of the bed and leans up against it, wavering on his feet.

 

“Thor, can you just wait please?”

 

“I am able to walk,” Thor insists, pushing Clint’s hand away. He takes one wobbly step, like a newborn giraffe, then another. Clint hustles after him, arms outstretched even though there’s no way he could stop Thor if he fell. He’d get squished. “See? I can walk.” On the third step, Thor’s knee buckles. Clint makes a grab for him but only gets a fistful of hospital gown. Shit!

 

Suddenly Bucky is there, holding Thor up with his metal hand. “C’mon, back in bed,” Bucky orders him, and Thor obeys without protest. He lets Bucky guide him back to the bed and help him get seated. As soon as he’s settled, Bucky backs up again. Neither of them say anything, but Thor is eyeing Bucky, expression a combination of curiosity and confusion. Bucky is staring hard through his floppy hair at a spot over Thor’s right shoulder, very purposefully not making eye contact. 

 

The door swings open and Dr. Cho swoops in, nurses on her heels, all smiles. “Hello, Thor, nice to see you awake. How are you feeling?” 

 

“Well, but Clint will not allow me to get up.” That is sort of unfair, isn’t it? Bucky was the one who told him to go back to bed. Why does Clint get the blame?

 

The corner of Cho’s mouth quirks up into a half-smile. She’s suddenly busy looking down at her pocket and can’t quite make eye contact. Must be that _goddamn voice_. Thor didn’t used to sound like that, did he? Cho visibly controls her face as she pulls her thermometer out of her pocket. “How about if you let me check you over first, ok?” she says, holding up the thermometer.

 

Thor glances at Bucky, who is still glaring at the wall, before nodding. “Yes, of course, Doctor,” he says formally.

 

She starts with his temp, which apparently falls in the range of whatever normal is for him usually. Clint coulda told her that just based on the back of his hand. Over the past few days he’s got it pretty well calibrated for Thor’s fever range, and he’s definitely below that now.

 

Next she slides the bell of the stethoscope down his back under the gown. “Take a deep breath,” she says, moving the bell to different sections of his back. Last time she did this, Thor was sitting on Clint’s lap, all bruises and wide eyes and filthy, tangled hair. The recollection causes the corner of Clint’s mouth to twist wistfully. 

 

Clint pulls out his phone to distract himself and texts Steve. 

 

**He’s awake**

 

_I’m on my way. How does he seem?_

 

**ok i guess**

 

Cho finishes taking Thor’s vitals and says, “Well, you seem healthy. Do you want to try to get up?“

 

“He already tried that,” Bucky says abruptly. Oh, so he _is_ paying attention? “Nearly fell on his ass.”

 

“I believe I am stronger now. I will try again.”

 

“Well, let’s have you hold onto Bucky, at least until I’m sure you can stay on your feet.” When Bucky doesn’t come over, she points to Thor’s right side. “Bucky, you stand here.” Bucky’s expression tightens, but he does come to stand at the spot she indicated. “Good. Ok, Thor, you put your arm around Bucky’s shoulders and let him support you.”

 

Clint stands back and watches them walk around the room. Thor’s legs definitely do seem steadier. At first he’s leaning heavily on Bucky, but by the time they get to the far wall, he supporting most of his own weight. The whole time, Thor keeps looking down at Bucky’s head, and his face is telegraphing confusion, although Clint doesn’t know exactly what he’s confused about. Maybe, why Bucky is suddenly shorter than him?

 

When they are halfway back to the bed, Thor removes his arm from around Bucky’s shoulder and walks the rest of the way under his own power. Bucky doesn’t fight him, but Clint notices he keeps one hand on Thor’s back, and the other hovering at his side in case he starts to topple.

 

When Thor gets back to the bed, Cho grins and says, “Very good.”

 

“So may I go?” Thor asks, looking at Clint, who wonders where he is planning to go. Back to Clint’s quarters? He’s not going to have a full-size Thor demanding “Top-parps” and trying to sleep in his bed, is he??

 

“Just a minute. Thor, do you know where you are?”

 

“This is the medical bay at the tower.”

 

“Yes, that’s right. Do you know how you got here?”

 

There is a pause. Clint stops typing, but keeps his head down while he watches Thor out of the corner of his eye. “Um. . .” Thor looks around. His gaze stops at Bucky for a second, then moves on. “I assume I was. . . rescued?” he says to Cho, whose eyebrows go up.

 

“Rescued? What’s the last thing you remember?”

 

“I believe I had been captured?” Thor looks around again, apparently checking for confirmation, but they all just wait. Bucky’s eye has gone observant again. Clint thinks maybe he’s holding his breath. A hard lump has formed in Clint’s throat because _shit he doesn’t remember_. When no one answers, Thor continues, “I recall. . . a small room. It was dark and cold.”

 

“What else do you remember?” Cho asks. Her voice is gentle, like she’s talking to a child. Poor Thor looks as lost and confused as Clint feels. Clint wonders what Bucky’s feeling, because his face isn’t giving anything away, especially because most of it is covered with his hair. 

 

“I was. . . shackled to a wall, I think. There was an orange light, and then. . . and then I woke up here.”

 

“And nothing else happened in between?”

 

“. . . No? No, I don’t remember anything else. Should I?” Thor’s fingers worry the corner of the cape, where Little Thor used to chew it. _Used to_.

 

Cho glances at Clint, who quickly cuts his eyes down to his phone to hide his burning eyes, then at Bucky, who looks at the floor and takes a step back. “Um. . . not necessarily—” She’s cut off by a knock at the door. Before Clint can even respond, it bursts open and the team spills in, Steve in the lead.

 

“Hey, Thor!” Steve greets him enthusiastically.

 

“Hello, Steve,” Thor says, and everyone does sort of a double-take at his deep voice, just like Clint had done.

 

“Good to see you back to your old self,” Bruce says, grinning like a fool. The grin fades when Thor responds with a confused expression. Bruce shoots a glance at Clint, who shakes his head, just a small movement. _No, Bruce, do not give me that pitying look!_ Then everyone else looks at Clint too, so of course he has to shake his head again, and in return he gets the sad-eyed sympathetic face from everyone, which is really NOT what he needs right now. 

 

“I mean, good to. . . have you back,” Bruce says, glancing at Clint again for confirmation. Clint nods this time, because, whatever, Thor doesn’t remember, so who cares. It’s like the last four months never even happened. Whatever. Clint _doesn’t care._

 

“I am glad to be back,” Thor says. Then they are all surrounding him, thumping him on the back, talking over each other in excitement, although Thor’s not really answering, and his face. . . lips pressed together, jaw set, eyes wary. . . If Clint didn’t know better, he’d almost think it looked like the Being Brave face. It gives Clint a pang, right below his sternum, but Big Thor doesn’t have to fake being brave, because he IS brave. . . right?

 

The team closes around Thor and Clint is left in the back of the group by himself. He tells himself he doesn’t care. It’s not like he needs to be included. His work here is done, isn’t it? Thor no longer needs ‘Uncuh Cwint” and “Uncuh Bucky”. . . speaking of Bucky—just a minute ago he was standing by the door, and now Clint doesn’t see him. Where the hell did he go? Apparently he saw an escape route and took it. Maybe Clint should do the same? Just duck out the door while no one is watching. It’ll be easier for all of them.

 

Clint is halfway out the door when Thor’s rough voice cuts through the chatter. “I would like to go now,” he says. The rest of the group goes silent. Clint pauses to listen.

 

After a moment, Bruce asks, cautiously, “Go where?”

 

“To. . . my quarters. To rest.” 

 

“. . .Oh. Ok.” 

 

There is a short pause, Bruce takes a step back. Everyone follows his lead, although they are all eyeing each other like they’re wondering if they should say anything. Thor looks around the group with those wary eyes. His gaze hesitates on Steve’s face for a few extra seconds. _Good god, Steve, control your eyebrows,_ Clint thinks. Thor doesn’t say anything, but now his eyebrows pull together too in an almost perfect mirror of Steve’s.

 

Finally Thor slides off the bed. He picks up the cape and drapes it around his shoulders, where it only comes down to mid-calf. He doesn’t seem to have noticed that the hem is dirty and tattered from dragging on the ground. After one last glance at Steve, he heads toward the door and the rest of the team steps aside to let him pass. Clint thinks he will stop when he gets to the door, you know, so they can walk together. If this was little Thor, he’d be asking to be carried, which Clint would do, _just this once_. But Thor doesn’t stop. He trudges right on by Clint and into the hallway, and they all just stand there and watch him go.

 

Finally Bruce calls after him, “Thor, do you want your hammer?”

 

“No, do NOT just call it please!” Tony chimes in. “Break my damn building. . .”

 

Thor turns around in the hallway and blinks at them. “Perhaps later,” he says. Clint was not expecting that. 

 

“I can take you down to get it,” Bruce offers.

 

“No thank you. I know where it is stored. I do not need help.”

 

“Oh. . . Ok.”

 

Thor turns around and walks off. While they all stand there and stare at the door stupidly, Clint takes the opportunity to leave too, quick before he can catch any more looks of sympathy, because that’s the last thing he needs. Thor went to the elevator, so Clint heads for the stairs. He doesn’t want to end up stuck in the elevator with Thor right now. 

 

As he’s making his way down to his floor, he can’t help but think. Of course he’s thinking about the kid. His arms are feeling awfully cold and empty right now, with no kid snuggled in them. Somehow, in the midst of all that thinking, he misses his floor and ends up at the doors to the gym. Might as well go in, run for a while to take his mind off it. Like Bucky said, _it’s where he goes when_.

 

The gym is dark, but as soon as he opens the door he hears the treadmill, the high-pitched whirring meaning it’s moving fast. Only one person he knows can move that fast. Well, two people, but Steve was up in the medical bay. And only Bucky likes to run in the dark. Shit. Too late to turn back now. After a brief pause in the doorway, he keeps going and turns the lights on. Bucky only spares him a brief glance but doesn’t even break stride. His sweaty hair is hanging down, nearly covering his face but it can’t hide the scowl. His whole body is one big scowl—tight shoulders, clenched fists, feet pounding so hard that Clint is surprised the treadmill hasn’t broken.

 

The rest of the treadmills are empty, but Clint deliberately takes the treadmill next to Bucky, because _fuck it_. Life is short, Might as well poke the bear. He starts the machine at a light jog, about seven miles an hour. Bucky’s machine is set at 12. Clint would die if he tried to run 12 miles an hour.

 

After a few minutes, Clint says lightly, “So I can’t help but notice you left the medical bay.”

 

“So.” Bucky increases his speed to 13. Clint increases his to eight. Stupid, he knows. Don’t get into pissing contests with supersoldiers.

 

“So I thought you might want to stay and make sure Thor was ok.”

 

“Why?” Bucky bumps his speed up to 14. Shit, he knew this was a big mistake, but Clint’s ego won’t let it go. He ups his speed to nine. He’s fooling himself if he thinks he can keep up that pace for more than a few minutes. Already his heart is pounding and he’s breathing so hard and fast he’s having trouble speaking.

 

“Because—“ Well, Clint’s not sure what to say here. _Because he’s our kid_ doesn’t really seem to fit. Besides, it’s not accurate anymore, is it? Not a kid, not _ours_. There’s a tightness in Clint’s chest that he chalks up to the speed and his increasing shortness of breath.

 

“He was fine. He’s a fucking Greek god. Of course he’s fine.”

 

“Norse,” Clint corrects him automatically, although that’s not the only thing wrong with that sentence. Bucky is _so full of shit_. Clint definitely liked him better when he didn’t talk. At least then he could imagine he was thinking all kind of profound thoughts.

 

“Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Point is nothing can hurt him.”

 

“He almost died!”

 

“Yeah? Well, it’s like he _did_ die!” Bucky snaps. He abruptly hits the stop button on his treadmill and hops off. Clint fumbles to hit his stop button too, almost falls, and recovers just in time to watch Bucky stomp out the door. Goddammit! Clint is so tired of dealing with everyone else’s emotions! The point is—the point is Thor _isn’t_ dead, and Bucky is being an asshole. So what else is new?

 

 

Clint doesn’t realize until he gets back to his quarters and looks out the window that it’s raining—not pouring, just a steady drizzle from a steely gray sky that matches the wet pavement and surrounding buildings. He turns away from the window and notices that his quarters are still a mess because every time he has been back here in the past week, he has been so exhausted that he just dropped into bed. He’s gonna clean it up. Really, he definitely plans to clean it all up, but everywhere he looks he finds reminders of the kid: the bag of Thor’s pajamas sitting by the front door, abandoned little socks strewn across the living room floor, bath toys in the tub, trucks and trains and legos scattered down the hallway like an obstacle course. They should make you navigate a gauntlet like that before they let you take a baby home from the hospital, to prove you’re ready to be a parent.

 

It’s all so overwhelming that he only thing he ends up picking up is the little truck from Nathaniel, and then he just sets it on the coffee table because where is he supposed to put it? Where are the tiny underoos and impossible sneakers supposed to go? Probably in a box to wait for Nathaniel to grow into them, he supposes. Yeah, he’ll do that tomorrow. Today he needs to do the couch-flop and not think about that shit for a while.

 

As he’s laying facedown on the sofa, worrying because that’s the only thing his brain knows how to do anymore, his phone buzzes. He picks it up and opens one eye just far enough to see it’s a text from Laura.

 

_How are things going? Did Thor wake up?_

 

**Yes**

 

_What did he say? Is he all right?_

 

Clint’s not sure how to answer that one. Is he all right? Yes, he seems “all right”, whatever that means. What did he say? Um. . . 

 

While he’s trying to figure what to tell her, Laura calls him. 

 

“Hey, so he’s awake?”

 

“. . . Yeah.” 

 

“What did he say?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Nothing? Nothing at all? Is he ok?”

 

“No, I mean. . .He. . .uh. . . he doesn’t remember anything.”

 

“He doesn’t remember _anything_?”

 

“Nothing about the last few months, I mean. He remembers being captured, and then he woke up in the medical bay. Nothing in between.”

 

Laura takes an audible breath, then there’s silence on the other end of the line for several seconds before she finally says, “I’m so sorry, honey.”

 

There’s that stupid pressure back behind his eyes. _It’s like he died_. . . but he didn’t, so Clint needs to get over it and move on. “It’s fine,” Clint chokes out. He clears his throat before continuing. Damn dust giving him allergies. “It’s probably better that way. It was pretty traumatic for him, you know. So this way, he can just carry on like. . . nothing happened.”

 

“How’s Bucky taking it?”

 

“He. . .” _he’s falling apart at the seams_ “. . . he’ll get over it.”

 

“Want to come home for a while? Maybe, help me tell Nathaniel what’s going on?”

 

Oh, god, Nathaniel. “Do you want to put him on the phone? I can tell him.” Please say no please say no please say no. . . 

 

“I can tell him later. I’ll bake oatmeal raisin cookies just for him. He’s the only one that likes them anyway. Then I’ll tell him while his mouth is too full to scream.”

 

“You’re the best.” Clint’s phone buzzes in his hand. He pulls it away from his ear far enough to see he has a text from Wanda. What the hell does she want?

 

“Yeah, I know.”

 

“And humble too.”

 

“Yes, so humble. I’ll talk to you later, Clint. Call me if you want to talk.”

 

“Ok, I will. Love you.” Clint disconnects the call and taps the text notification, and before he knows it, a video is playing. It takes a few seconds to figure out what it’s about, because the picture is moving around too much, but then he hears Bucky’s voice: “—and the moon sees me, shining through the leaves of the old oak tree—“ The screen finally focuses on an off-center, tilted view of Bucky holding little Thor against his shoulder, swaying in time to the music; in the background, Steve stands frozen, eyebrows knitted together and mouth twisted in a transparent attempt to hold back tears.

 

Clint hits stop because his vision is suddenly too blurry to continue. While he’s rubbing his eyes, his phone buzzes again. Another text from Wanda, and when he taps on it, he discovers a video of Thor jumping on the trampoline with Sam, hair flying, huge grin on his face. He shouts, “FROW ME AGAIN, UNCUH SAM!!” Clint has to stop that one too, as soon as he hears that little voice, because it makes his heart hurt too much.

 

_Buzz_. A picture from Bruce, of Thor, cape hanging out of his mouth, snuggled up against a sleeping Bucky, watching Lion King.

 

_Buzz_. A video from Tony, of Wanda magically throwing Thor clear across the gym, where he lands on the trampoline and bounces about twenty feet in the air. Wanda tosses out a bolt and catches him just in time to prevent him from crash-landing on his head. Clint’s glad he never knew about that one before.

 

_Buzz_. A series of photos from Sam, of Thor, holding up papers with his attempts at writing words. Most of the letters are backwards, crooked, or squished, but he has such a hopeful smile on his face that Clint melts and he finds himself whispering, “Good job, buddy” to the picture. Then he feels foolish because he’s praising a picture of a kid who doesn’t even exist anymore.

 

_Buzz_. video from Sam of Thor, face covered in peanut butter and jelly, proudly holding up a paper that says CLIT with a backwards L. “Dis is your name, Uncuh Cwint! I writed it!” The camera is shaking, and Clint can hear Sam cackling like a hyena in the background.

 

_Buzz_. A video from Bruce, of Thor standing on the table in the common room, singing TWINKOH TWINKOH WIDDOH ‘TAR! at the top of his lungs, then following it up with “WHY DON’T DEY KNOW WHAT A ‘TAR IS?”

 

_Buzz_. Video from Nat of Thor riding his scooter on a TIGHTROPE (When the hell did that happen??). Halfway through he falls at least ten feet off the tightrope. Even though the scooter lands on top of him, he pops right back up and shouts, “WET’S DO DAT AGAIN, AUNTIE NAT!”

 

_Buzz_. From Tony, footage from Friday’s security camera of Thor flying with Sam. He’s tucked down in the front pack so far that only the top half of his head is visible. His eyes are wide and he’s making little yelps of delight as they swoop around the gym. His little flipper hands flap up and down and he’s practically kicking Sam in the crotch in his excitement.

 

_Buzz_. A video from Steve, of Little Thor sitting on Bucky’s shoulders. Both are holding ice cream cones and wearing matching face-splitting grins. Several drips hang precariously from the bottom of Thor’s cone, but Bucky doesn’t seem to have noticed.

 

“Whatcha got there, squirt?” Bucky asks, looking up at Thor.

 

“You already know what I got, Uncuh Bucky!”

 

“Go ahead and tell us, Thor,” comes Steve’s voice from off camera.

 

“Dis is chocowate ice cream. It’s dewicioso!” Thor crows, flinging his cone around in a arc that causes the drops to fall onto Bucky’s head. Bucky makes a face and reaches up to wipe the ice cream as it drips down his cheek.

 

“You got me!” Bucky hands his cone off-screen, probably to Steve judging by the way the camera bobbles, then pulls Thor off his shoulders and wipes his face against Thor’s, transferring the ice cream onto his skin and hair, accompanied by the sounds of Thor giggling. Clint has to hit mute because it hurts too much to hear that again without the kid sitting on his lap. 

 

He sits and continues to watch in silence, but even with the sound turned off, that high-pitched, musical giggle still echoes in his head, pushing tears suddenly close to the surface. On the screen, there is a bit wrestling around, resulting in more dripped ice cream. Finally Thor wins by wrapping his skinny arms around Bucky’s neck and planting a smooch on the side of his face with his chocolatey mouth. Bucky makes a noise, then pulls Thor in and gives him a zerbert on the neck. Thor’s mouth opens wide in a howl of delight. 

 

The camera bobbles again, then Steve’s face appears on the screen. He grins, holds up Bucky’s cone, and takes a big bite of ice cream out of the top. Clint turns the volume up again in time to hear Bucky and Thor both gasp, followed by Thor’s shout, “Hey, dat’s BUCKY’S ice cream!” 

 

Steve’s laugh on the video is interrupted by Friday’s voice. “Clint, I thought you might like to know Thor is outside the door.”

 

“He is? I didn’t hear him knock,” Clint says as he jumps up. He opens the door and automatically looks down, where little Thor’s head should be, but he doesn’t see anyone. He’s bigger now, his brain reminds him, so he looks to the left, higher this time. Still nothing. To the right above eye level, nothing. Then down to the right, where he finds Thor sitting against the wall, one leg stretched out practically blocking the hallway, and the other knee up with his elbow propped on it. He’s wearing ratty sweats and a threadbare blue t-shirt, and his feet are bare. His cape is wrapped around his shoulders but his hands are empty—no ax-hammer.

 

“Hey, Thor.”

 

Thor looks up. “Hello.” His hair is still a mess, hanging into his eyes, almost covering the bruise on his forehead and circles around his eyes, which have faded to a dirty yellow-brown.

 

“What’s up?”

 

“I’m sitting on the floor.”

 

Clint manages not to laugh, although he can’t help the tiny smile that lifts the corner of his mouth. “Yes, I can see that. Is everything all right?”

 

Thor frowns, like he has to think hard about that one. “I don’t know,” he says after a moment, “my feet brought me here.”

 

“Ah. Well, as long as you’re here, do you want to come in?”

 

Thor hesitates, as if waiting for confirmation, so Clint nods and steps back in an obvious invitation to enter. _Don’t push him, let him come to you_. After a moment, Thor finally pushes himself up off the floor to his full height. Clint has to crane his neck up to look him in the eye. Now that Thor is facing him, Clint can see that the shirt has Cap’s familiar bullseye shield emblem on the front. It’s getting harder to suppress the smile that tugs at his mouth. Goddammit, face, control yourself!

 

Thor pauses just inside the doorway. He doesn’t move his head, but Clint can see his eyes scanning the room, pausing on each toy, dirty dish, and piece of junk strewn across every horizontal surface. Oh, right. Should probably clean that up. How embarrassing.

 

“Um. . .” Clint squeezes around Thor and starts picking up toys out of the path. “Come on in. Um. . .” He scoops up a ketchup-smeared plate in one hand and a box of Legos in the other, then he realizes, wait a minute, Thor was the one who MADE this mess, so why should Clint be embarrassed for him to see it? 

 

It seems like an eternity before Thor finally takes a step inside the doorway. “Have I been in your quarters before?”

 

Clint pauses in setting the plate down on the coffee table. Tell the truth, or lie? _Truth, but only as much as he asks for_. “Yes, you have.”

 

Thor’s observant gaze scans the room again and stops near the door. “Is that called a ‘cooter?” he asks, gesturing at the scooter propped against the wall.

 

Clint automatically runs his finger down his arm. “Ssss-cooter. Yes.”

 

“Ah. Scooter.” Thor picks up the scooter and examines it for a second before setting it back down in the same place and resuming his inspection of the room. Clint follows his eyes and lights on the little truck on the coffee table.

 

“Hey, Thor, what’s this?” Clint says, holding up the little truck. _Oh god please say fuck please should probably film this just in case don’t say it until I can get my phone out._

 

Thor’s head tips to the side in a combination of confusion and recognition. “That is a truck.” _Oh. Disappointment._ Clint slips his phone back into his pocket.

 

Thor holds out one gigantic paw, palm up. “May I?”

 

Clint shrugs. “Sure.” He deposits the truck in Thor’s palm, where it nearly disappears. Thor turns it over and runs his thumb over the bottom where Clint, at Little Thor’s insistence, had scratched his name into the paint with the point of his pocketknife. Then he tries to hand it back to Clint.

 

“Keep it, it’s yours,” Clint says impulsively.

 

“This is mine,” Thor says. It’s not a question, but it’s not said with complete certainty either.

 

“Yes, it’s yours.”

 

Thor frowns down at the truck for a minute in obvious confusion. _Come on, just ask and I’ll tell you_ , Clint thinks, but Thor doesn’t say anything else. Still holding the truck clutched in his enormous fist, he wanders into the kitchen, where he leans over and studies the artwork adorning the front of the fridge. After a moment, he points to the chicken scratches at the top of one of the papers. ”This is my name.”

 

“Yes, so I’ve been told.”

 

“Why is this letter backwards?”

 

“It is?” Clint leans in too and examines the unfamiliar Asgardian symbols, but he can’t make heads or tails of them so he has no idea whether any of them are backwards or upside down, or even inside out.

 

“Yes. Where did you get my name in Asgardian writing?”

 

“Where do you think I got it?”

 

“I think. . . I think I wrote it,” Thor turns the words over in his mouth as if he’s trying to digest the idea. “But why would I write a letter backwards?”

 

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Clint suggests.

 

Thor just stands there staring at the paper. He is clutching the little truck so tight it’s making indentations in his hand. “There are pictures in my head—memories, I think, but they can’t be true.” He looks so confused and distressed that Clint takes pity on him.

 

“Thor, come sit down,” he says, gesturing toward the couch. Thor follows him like an overgrown puppy and sits at the other end of the couch, keeping an empty seat between them. “What do you remember? Can you tell me?”

 

“. . . I remember. . . flying, I think. Flying through the air—maybe someone. . . threw me?—and Bucky catching me.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Did that really happen?”

 

“It. . . it may have happened a few times.”

 

“How? I do not believe Bucky could catch me.”

 

“Not. . . at your current size, no.”

 

“Then what happened? What am I remembering?”

 

Clint can’t decide what he should do here. Which would be more traumatic: to have these vague memories and not really know what happened, or to know everything? The good as well as the bad? What’s Clint going to say? That they made you a kid and took advantage of your vulnerability to torture and rape you? That you cried non-stop for your mama and had screaming nightmares every night? That the only place you felt safe was in my arms?

 

“Clint?” Thor says. When Clint lifts his head, he sees that Thor is leaning over a little trying to see his face. “What is wrong?”

 

“I’m trying to decide what to tell you. What do you want to know?”

 

“The truth,” Thor says instantly. Easy for him to say. He doesn’t know how much the truth will hurt. “Did something happen that I don’t remember?”

 

“Ok, yes.”

 

“What was it?”

 

Clint pulls out his phone and thumbs through the pictures and videos until Thor says, “Clint? What are you not telling me?”

 

“I’m going to show you, just hang on.” He finally decides on a video he took when Thor was first learning how to ride the scooter and seemed to have a magnetic pull toward anything expensive or fragile. “Here, watch this.”

 

He puts the phone into Thor’s hand, and watches Thor watch it. His eyes are narrowed and his eyebrows have a Steve-size pucker between them to match the little frown that wrinkles the corners of his mouth.

 

On the screen, Little Thor zooms on the scooter down the hallway outside of Clint’s apartment, hair flying, while Bucky chases after him, arms outstretched as if he thinks he can catch him.

 

“WOOK AT ME, CWINT!!” he cries. The sheer, open joy on his face makes Clint’s chest contract painfully, especially in contrast to the guarded expression that Big Thor is currently wearing like a shield.

 

“I’m looking, buddy,” comes Clint’s voice from behind the camera.

 

Little Thor flies past the camera and keeps going, to the other end of the hallway where, of course, a highly breakable statue stands on a pedestal in the corner.

 

“Watch out, squirt!” Bucky calls. He grabs for Thor just in time and swoops him up out of harm’s way, but the scooter keeps going, crashes into the pedestal, and knocks it to the ground, where the arm snaps off with a resounding crack. The camera wobbles then the video ends on Thor’s cry of “Oops!”

 

After the video ends, Thor still sits frozen, staring at the screen in obvious confusion. “Thor?” Clint says after a moment.

 

“Who. . . who was that?”

 

“That was you.”

 

Thor’s head snaps up. “That was me??”

 

“Yeah. They. . . did something to you that made you into a kid.”

 

“I don’t remember that. Why don’t I remember that?”

 

“I don’t know. When you were little, you didn’t remember much about being grown up either.”

 

Thor swipes his finger across the screen and flips through the next several pictures, which capture his little self doing flips off the very sofa he is currently sitting on. After the third picture, he looks around the room, eyes painfully observant. “Did I stay here with you?”

 

“Yes, do you remember that?”

 

“I think. . . Did you fix me dragon meat?”

 

“Not dragon, they were chicken. But you called them dragon nuggets. You remember that?”

 

“I recall eating them, perhaps. . . with Bucky?”

 

“Yes, he hung out with us quite a bit.”

 

“Why? I barely know him.”

 

Hmm. . . how is Clint going to explain Bucky and Thor’s relationship without venturing into painful territory? This would be a lot easier if Bucky were sitting next to him right now, instead of hiding in a corner somewhere pouting. “You. um--” _(worshipped the ground he walked on)_ “—got sort of attached to him, and I think the feeling was mutual.”

 

“Oh.” Thor still looks mystified. Clint realizes he’s doing the same thing he was so angry at Steve for, withholding the truth to protect Thor’s feelings. But come on, Clint just _can’t_. The urge to parent is just. too. strong.

 

“Do you remember anything about what they. . . did to you?”

 

“No. I don’t know—I remember. . . pain, but no details. I believe I was crying but I don’t know why.”

 

“Ok. If you remember anything else, you can ask me about it, ok?” Clint says carefully.

 

“Yes. Thank you for caring for me.”

 

That’s a surprise. Clint never expected to be thanked for his efforts. He just did what parents do, all the time, and he was amply repaid by the adoration he received from Little Thor in return. “It wasn’t a burden.”

 

“It was apparently too much of a burden for the only remaining member of my family.” Thor says it lightly, but there are layers and layers of pain lurking behind his eyes. Clint has seen Little Thor sobbing for his brother; he knows the truth, even though Big Thor’s got his emotions back on lockdown. The only evidence of any upset is that he’s rubbing the corner of the cape between his fingers. It’s such a small movement Clint wouldn’t have noticed it unless he was looking for it.

 

“Loki came looking for you.”

 

Thor raises his eyebrows. “He did, did he?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Thor’s mouth twists up at the corner, but it’s not a smile. “I can’t help but notice I’m still here.”

 

There’s a lot Clint could say here. He could say, _What do you expect from a giant asshole?_ He could say, _You’re better off without him_. He could say, _Loki doesn’t love you and he never will_. But then he notices that Thor’s jaw muscle is jumping from chewing the inside of his cheek, and his fingers are picking at the edge of the cape. He decides to be charitable. No need to project all of his own anger at Loki onto Thor. The man is messed up enough already.

 

“He—uh—he wanted you, but when he saw you here, he decided you were better off here.” 

 

“Hmm. I suppose I should thank him for that small kindness.” Instead of the hopeful innocence Little Thor always showed when he talked about Loki, Big Thor’s eyes are filled with the jaded weariness of a man who has been hurt so many times it no longer surprises him. Dammit, it’s like the time Lila came home with a skinned knee, and told him her “ex-best friend” had pushed her down in the mud again. No tears, not even anger, just resignation. _This person who was supposed to love me does not, and there’s nothing I can do about it._

 

"Thor? How are you. . . feeling?"

 

Thor shrugs. "I'm fine. I'm unharmed."

 

"No, I mean. . . emotionally. How do you feel about all of this?"

 

That gets him a confused look. "I said I was fine. I'm not harmed."

 

". . . ok." Clint chews his lip. How is he supposed to explain the difference between physical feelings and emotions to a Norse god?

 

While he's trying to think of what to say, Thor looks around the apartment. “Where did I sleep while I was here?” 

 

“Oh. Um. . . in my bed.”

 

“That must have been. . . interesting.”

 

“Yeah, that’s one way to put it. You’re not exactly a peaceful sleeper.”

 

The corner of Thor’s mouth curls up again, but this time it is an actual smile. Well, half of one anyway. “So I have been told.”

 

“And what the hell is up with your body temperature?

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You never noticed that you run several degrees warmer than the rest of us? God, it was like sleeping next to a furnace. And the fact that you usually slept with your arm wrapped around my neck—I felt like I was about to burst into flames.”

 

The smile widens, just a little. “That I have also been told.”

 

“Here, look.” Clint flips through his pictures until he finds one of Thor wearing his usual get-up: Hawkeye pjs, Bucky shirt, Captain America hoodie, all topped off with the cape. He holds out the phone and Thor leans in to look, close enough Clint can feel the familiar warmth radiating off him. “This is how you usually dressed. I almost died of heat stroke sleeping next to you. ”

 

Thor peers at the picture, eyebrows raised. “What happened to my hair? And my face??” he says in horror. Clint has to check the picture again to really see the hair and face—it was just such a normal part of Little Thor that he barely notices it anymore. But when he looks again, he sees the tangled hair sticking out to the side, the ring of chocolate around the mouth and the smear of jam across one cheek.

 

“Hey, don’t blame me for that! You were a wild child. Fought me tooth and nail whenever I tried to wash your face or get you in the bath. And don’t get me started on the teeth brushing!”

 

The smile takes up Thor’s whole mouth now. It’s that _light up the room_ smile, which is pretty awesome. Clint wouldn’t mind seeing more of that smile. “That I have also been told, by my mother. She complained mightily that I was never presentable enough for court. I recall her spitting on her sleeve and using it to wipe my face.”

 

“Mothers are the same all over the universe, apparently. Laura did that to Cooper the other day. He almost died of embarrassment.”

 

That gets him a breathy huff, _almost_ a laugh. “One time when she attempted to wash Loki’s face, he used his magic to turn into bird to get away.”

 

“What did she do?”

 

“Simply caught him by the tail and washed the bird’s face. Then she deposited him in a cage until he was ready to turn back into himself again.”

 

Clint laughs despite himself at that picture—Little Loki thinking he was getting away, only to be calmly dumped into a cage by his unflappable mother. His laugh sours a bit when he realizes that the likely reason their mother went to such pains to keep them clean was to spare them from their father’s wrath. 

 

Thor is laughing too, still muted but definitely there. God, Clint loves to hear that, even if it’s not Little Thor’s musical giggle. Of course, Clint can’t help but notice that even while Thor’s laughing, he’s still rubbing the corner of the cape between his thumb and forefinger. Clint half-expects him to stuff it in his mouth, but of course he doesn’t. 

 

Thor’s laugh turns into a yawn midway through. Clint is about to say, “You sleepy, buddy?” but stops himself just in time. Somehow he doesn’t think Big Thor will appreciate that.

 

“I would like to rest now, as I am sure you would as well,” Thor says. “May I return to my quarters?”

 

“Uh, yeah, you don’t need to ask my permission.”

 

“Oh. Of course. Well, thank you and goodnight.”

 

“You’re welcome, Thor. Anytime. And I mean that. Anytime you want to talk, about anything, my door is open. Literally. Like, I never lock it. Everyone strolls right in like they live here. You might as well too.”

 

“Thank you, Clint. I appreciate the offer.” Thor stands up off the sofa and pulls the cape around himself. He’s still got the little truck clutched in his fist as he trudges to the door, where he turns and takes one last look around the apartment. The corner of his mouth pulls up again. “I assume I made this mess. Would you like me to help clean it up?”

 

Clint covers a yawn with the back of his hand. “Maybe tomorrow. Come on by in the morning, ok?”

 

“Yes, all right. Good night.” Then he’s gone, but not forever, right? He’ll be back tomorrow, and maybe he’ll even laugh again. That would be the best. Clint sits back on his recliner and closes his eyes. It’s good that Thor’s smiling again. He’s going to be ok, right? They’re going to be ok. 

 

In the silence, he realizes he can hear a pitter-pattering on the windows. He sits up and looks out the window and sees it’s still raining. Shit.


	35. Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor's not ok, but that's ok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! The final chapter is here at last. I hope you find it to be a satisfying wrap-up for this story. This has been a loooong haul, much longer than I anticipated when I started writing over a year ago, before Infinity War or even Ragnarok were released. I've never written a story that has gotten as much attention as this one, so I'm very thankful to all of you dear readers for sticking with it, commenting, and leaving kudos. Y'all are awesome!

 

 

* * *

 

After Thor leaves, Clint sits for a few minutes, but he can't get his brain to shut off long enough to rest. So he pushes himself out of the armchair and finishes picking up all the crap lying around his apartment. He scoops up all the dirty socks and shoves them down the laundry chute. Then he puts the boxes of Legos, and trucks, and trains, and playdough, and Princess Barbies, and Markers, back into the kids’ room and shuts the door. He’ll deal with that later, after he’s had enough rest and time to process (ok, so, never then). 

 

The last thing he picks up is the bag of PATIENT BELONGINGS still sitting by the door. He has to sit on the couch to open it. The filthy Hawkeye pajamas he lays out on the couch next to him, then the Bucky shirt. There’s something else in the bag, and when he reaches in, he discovers the Bucky Bear. It’s squashed and floppy, part of the fur on the legs has been rubbed off, and the stitching is starting to fray where Laura sewed the arm back on. One of the ears is crunchy from Little Thor chewing on it, but the fur on top of the head is still soft. Clint brushes his finger over the fur, then holds the bear up and rubs it under his chin like Little Thor used to do. It tickles, and it smells like peanut butter, and strawberry jam, and blueberries, and stale saliva, and Clint’s _not crying_ , he’s just got some dust in his eye.

 

_Dammit, stop wallowing_ , he tells himself sternly. He sets the bear down on the side table, propped up against the lamp. It falls over, so he picks it up and rearranges the legs until it sits up, although sort of slumped over with the head cocked to the side, like it has so many questions. Just like its owner used to have. _Right. Stop that._

 

Scowling at himself in disgust, he grabs the Hawkeye pjs and the Bucky shirt and stuffs them down the laundry chute. He’ll deal with them later too, once they come back from the laundry all clean and not smelling like a kid who doesn’t exist anymore.

 

Clint has a night alone in his apartment for the first time in months, so he decides to “celebrate” (ok, fine, drown his sorrows) by finally watching the rest of Pulp Fiction and working his way through a bottle of whiskey. Unfortunately he has no whiskey (Thanks, Sam!), so he decides to drink Vodka. Yeah, that’s gone too. Blame Nat. No beer in the fridge, because Bucky drank it all. Friends are more damn trouble than they're worth, he decides. The only alcohol in the cupboard is a bottle of peppermint schnapps that Laura left here for her spiked hot cocoa recipe last Christmas. Clint takes a swig. It tastes like toothpaste, but he manages to gag it down anyway. It will have to do.

 

He puts his pajamas on before he starts watching. Gotta be comfortable while he drinks his candy cane cocktail. Now if he can just keep his eyes open long enough to get to the end of the movie. While he watches out of his the corner of his eye, he swipes through the pictures and videos he’s taken over the past few months, along with the ones that were texted to him today. Three peppermint schnapps “cocktails” (two shots of schnapps and one tablespoon-ish milk, shaken not stirred because he can’t find a clean spoon), he finds himself forwarding a couple of the photos and videos to Bucky. Stupid, right? Bucky doesn’t want to be reminded of that. He’s exercising to forget, dammit! There’s no response from Bucky, as Clint should have expected.

 

By the time he tries to focus back on the movie, he has no idea what’s going on. He’s seen it before, but he must be tired because the plot is making no damn sense. Or maybe this girly drink is stronger than it tastes.

 

The characters are finally back in the diner when he falls asleep on top of his covers, teeth unbrushed. So when the storm wakes him up several hours later, his mouth tastes like something crawled in it and died. Storm? Oh shit, the kid! 

 

The wind is roaring and rain is pouring down so hard it sounds like pebbles are hitting the window. This is a bad one. Must be a doozy of a nightmare. In the pitch black, Clint starts frantically feeling around in the bed for the kid. Gotta snuggle him and get him calmed down quick before someone gets hurt. Where the hell is he?

 

A flash of lightning illuminates the room enough for Clint to see that he’s alone in the bed. He sits up and looks around the bedroom, hand shielding his eyes from the brightness of the lightning.

 

“Thor?” he calls, “where are you? It’s ok, buddy, it’s just a nightmare.”

 

There’s no response, not even a whimper. So where the fuck would the kid go? He must be hiding somewhere small. Clint fights his way out of the bed and stumbles down the hall, holding onto the walls, until he gets to the bathroom. He yanks open the cupboard and finds it empty of everything except spare towels. No kid.

 

Where else might he go? The kids’ bedroom? Worth a look. More stumbling, half-awake, back down the hall, only to find the kids’ bedroom empty too. Clint even checks the closet, then drops to his stomach and looks under all the beds. “Thor?” he calls again. “THOR!” The only response is the pounding of the rain on the windows and the increasingly frequent booms of thunder all around.

 

He runs to the living room and swivels his head around. _Where would he go where would he go where would he go??_ “Friday, where’s Thor?!” he cries in a panic.

 

“Thor is on West 42nd street, walking west,” comes Friday’s implacable voice.

 

Wait, what?? He’s—he’s outside?? He—oh. He’s not little anymore. He’s not staying here anymore. He can take care of himself. . . But why is there a raging storm outside? And why is Thor walking? Is he headed for the Lincoln Tunnel or something? Why doesn’t he just fly?

 

“Does he have anything with him? Like, his hammer?”

 

“No, he does not have his hammer.”

 

Well, that’s strange, Clint thinks as he searches for his shoes. Why would he not go get his hammer? And the storm must mean he’s upset, right? Yeah, better go and get him. Right. Just walk out into a category four hurricane and. . . what? Can’t exactly carry him back to the tower. Well, Clint doesn’t know what he’s going to do at that point. He’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. That’s if he can even _find_ Thor, which might be difficult given how hard it’s raining. On the other hand, following the lightning should take him right there, provided he’s not struck and killed by said lightning first.

 

“Call the elevator for me, Friday,” Clint says, as he shoves his feet in his shoes and runs out the door in his pajamas. 

 

“Yes, I’ll do that. I’ve got Thor’s location mapped on your phone.” 

 

On the way down to the lobby he has time to regret he didn’t grab a jacket, but oh well, too late now. He just hopes he can catch Thor quickly, before he gets too far away. Clint’s at the front doors when he realizes he probably should’ve called someone to help him. He pauses with his hand on the door, looking doubtfully out into the pitch black. A flash of lightning bathes the street in white and nearly blinds him. And he’s about to go out into that alone, with no coat. Maybe he can call Steve? Or Tony, except the lightning might short out his suit. Sam would have the same problem. Nat? Dammit, need to get moving!

 

As he’s standing there dithering, the door to the staircase flies open and Bucky comes striding out. He’s dressed all in black. The hair hanging in his face can’t hide his grim expression. Clint’s never been happier to see anyone in his life. He flashes a grin, which Bucky does not return.

 

“Where the fuck’s your coat, asshole?” Bucky says, but doesn’t give him time to answer because he just pushes the door open and stomps out into the storm. Clint hustles to follow. The wind whips Bucky’s hair around and drives the raindrops into their faces. 

 

“Didn’t have time to grab it,” Clint shouts over the wind.

 

Bucky ignores him. He’s too busy looking up and down the street. “Which way did he go?” he barks.

 

“Um. . . “ Clint pulls his phone out of his pocket and tries to shelter it from the rain with his hand, but it’s not helping much. He can make out a blinking red dot on the screen signifying Thor’s position, but that’s about it. No idea what the streets are, or even which way is north or south.

 

“Gimme that.” Bucky snatches the phone out of his hand, squints at it, and then says, “This way.” He stalks off confidently to the left, and Clint follows, somewhat less confidently. After a few steps he increases his pace to a run, trying to keep up with Bucky’s dark figure in the darker night. Already the rain has soaked through his light t-shirt and is running in rivulets down his neck and back. 

 

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” Clint calls after Bucky.

 

“Yes,” Bucky yells back without slowing down. Clint is almost sprinting now and he still. can’t. keep up. After half a block, he can’t even catch his breath, much less catch Bucky, who is nearly at the corner already. Shit, Bucky’s got his phone, so Clint can’t even call for help.

 

“BUCKY!” Clint shouts at Bucky’s receding back. If he turns that corner, Clint will never catch him. He’ll be alone out here, in the dark, with no phone. A bolt of lightning strikes the pavement only a few feet from him and he nearly jumps out of his skin. He maybe shrieks like a little girl, but the ensuing thunder drowns it out.

 

Bucky stops at the corner, spins around, and starts running back toward him. “C’mon!” he barks, holding out his metal hand. Clint grabs it and Bucky takes off again, nearly dragging Clint off his feet. Clint doesn’t dare ask him to slow down. They have to zigzag around lightning strikes, and even Bucky flinches as one hits just a few feet to their left. It’s definitely not Clint’s imagination that the storm is getting worse, which must mean they’re getting close.

 

They come around the corner onto West 42nd street and spot Thor midblock. Bucky slows to a halt. Clint takes the opportunity to yank his hand out of Bucky’s too-tight grasp, and they both stand there, panting, not sure what to do now they’ve found him. Thor’s still dressed in the ragged sweats and Captain America shirt he had been wearing earlier, but they are now soaked through and sticking to his skin. He’s got flip-flops on his feet. On anyone else, that outfit would look like a homeless person, but Thor manages to make it work. Of course he does—he’s the god of Thunder, even without his hammer. The cape billowing out behind him is the cherry on top.

 

Even though the wind is whipping his soaked hair into his face, and lightning is striking all around him, Thor doesn’t seem to notice. Unlike Little Thor, Big Thor ain’t afraid of no thunder. He’s not walking fast, but with a purpose. His jaw is set and his hands are balled into fists. Everything about him is powerful, almost terrifying. It’s beyond intimidating, but Clint can’t just let him go. Where the hell is he even going, in the middle of the night without his hammer? Why didn’t he get the hammer and just fly the hell out of there if he wanted to leave?

 

“Thor!” Clint calls. Thor keeps going, showing no evidence of having heard him. Not surprising, considering the way the wind is howling. “Thor, STOP!”

 

Thor turns that intensity on him, and instantly Clint’s body goes straight past fight or flight to **freeze** , because _holy shit_. While Clint is cowering there, frozen, Thor’s expression changes, from fury to uncertainty, and then confusion, and Clint suddenly realizes, _he didn’t expect anyone to come after him_. He was just going to take off and thought they wouldn’t care. But why not? Of course they’re not going to just let him leave. Doesn’t Thor know that?

 

Clint takes a step forward, braving the lightning that is still striking all around, even though he can feel the electricity lifting the hairs on his arms. “Wait, Thor, please,” Clint shouts over the wind, “just—Where are you going?”

 

“Somewhere. . . not here.”

 

“Come back.”

 

Thor’s jaw tightens again. Clint’s losing him, but he has no idea how. “Why? I thought you said I didn’t need your permission. Were you lying about that too?” he says belligerently. 

 

Clint rocks back on his heels, blinks rainwater out of his eyes. Lying about what? Thor must have remembered something, obviously, something Clint didn’t tell him about. Something that made him want to run away. Thor’s jaw is set, but his eyes. . . observant. Hollow. Oh yeah. _That_. Clint wants to punch something, but there are no walls to put holes into this time. He consciously relaxes his fists and softens his voice.

 

“Thor, please, just come back and talk to us. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

 

Thor is not moved by this argument, obviously, based on the fact that the wind is picking up speed again. Lightning strikes to Clint’s left, just past Bucky, who makes a strangled noise and does a whole body flinch. He curls in, convulsively flings his right arm up to protect his head while his left arm pulls in and tucks across his stomach. Of course—dude has a lightning rod attached to his shoulder, which adds a whole new level of _oh fuck_ to this equation. Gotta get Bucky under cover quick. Clint frantically looks around for someplace to hide. Alcove to their right isn’t deep enough. Awning over the next building entrance has nearly been torn off in the wind. Lone tree in the sidewalk—probably a bad bet. _SHIIIIIT_

 

Thor looks back and forth between Bucky, who is trying to make himself as small as possible, and Clint, who doesn’t have the energy to try to hide the fear on his face. Thor’s shoulders drop. Almost instantly the lightning trails off and the wind dies down, although the rain doesn’t let up. Bucky uncurls, and he and Clint both stand shivering, waiting for Thor to make the next move.

 

It seems like a long time before Thor finally wraps his cape around himself and starts trudging through the downpour back toward the tower. His head is bowed—Clint’s not even sure he’s watching where he’s going. Clint and Bucky exchange glances. Clint shrugs, and they both silently slog after Thor. Luckily he’s not moving very fast anymore, because Clint is so frozen he can’t hurry right now.

 

They squelch their way into the nearly deserted lobby, garnering no more than a sideways glance from the intern behind the desk. Thor gets almost to the elevators and stops. His head is still bent forward, eyes on the pattern in the carpet, where drips of rainwater land in a staccato rhythm. His lips are pressed together and his throat bobs in a hard swallow. 

 

Bucky puts his metal hand on Thor’s back and guides him to the elevator, which opens silently in front of them. “Come on, let’s go upstairs,” he says, and Thor walks in like an automaton, without lifting his head. Bucky hits the button for Clint’s floor without even asking. Of course they’re going there. That’s where they all live now, remember?

 

Nobody says anything the whole way up. Bucky’s got those observant eyes too. He’s clearly thinking tons of shit he’s not saying. Probably a good thing, considering how much bullshit he spews whenever he opens his mouth these days.

 

They get inside Clint’s door and then just stand there, because they are all too wet to sit on any of the furniture. Bucky is shivering and his lips are blue from the cold. Thor’s not shivering, but he doesn’t seem inclined to move either. They’re almost blocking the entryway, so Clint squeezes around them and goes to grab towels from the bathroom, from the same cupboard where Little Thor used to hide when he got upset. His hands are so cold he can barely hold onto the towels as he carries them back to the living room. 

 

Bucky takes the one Clint hands him, but Thor still stands frozen, so Clint reaches up and wraps a towel around his broad shoulders, at least as well as he can. “Come on, Thor, sit down on the couch, ok?” he says. Thor doesn’t look up, but he does come and sit down on one end of the couch, sort of scrunched back into the corner against the armrest. Bucky takes the chair across from the couch. Clint decides to give Thor some space so he sits on the other end of the couch, leaving an empty seat in between. Thor’s head is still bowed. He hasn’t made any effort to dry off his head, so rainwater is still dripping from his hair onto the sofa.

 

“Where’s your hammer?” Bucky says abruptly.

 

Thor’s only response is a vague shrug. Must still be in the fancy box in the basement, but why?

 

“Thor, can you tell us what’s going on?” Clint asks after a moment.

 

Thor:

 

“Did you. . . have a bad dream?”

 

Thor:

 

Clint rubs the rainwater from his hair while he waits. Thor reaches over to the side table and picks up the Bucky Bear, which suddenly looks a lot smaller in his enormous hands. After a thorough visual examination, Thor puts out a tentative finger and strokes the top of the bear’s ear. Clint can still hear a little voice exclaiming in wonder, “It’s sof’”, so it’s a surprise when Thor finally speaks in his rough, deep adult voice.

 

“This is a Bucky Bear.”

 

“Yes, that’s right,” Clint agrees.

 

“It’s. . . mine.”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky says.

 

Thor’s eyes flick up to Bucky and then back down to the bear. “You gave it to me.”

 

 “Yeah. You remember why?”

 

Thor stares at the bear so hard Clint’s surprised it hasn’t burst into flames. His jaw is twitching, and after a moment Clint realizes he is chewing the inside of his cheek, like Little Thor used to chew the cape.

 

“Thor? What’s going on?” Clint asks.

 

Thor shakes his head, scattering droplets of rainwater all over the couch. His chin is wrinkled up like he’s about to cry, but he’s not crying, at least as far as Clint can tell, although his face is still pretty wet from the rain.

 

“Thor. . .”

 

Thor shakes his head again. “You don’t understand.”

 

“Then help me,” Clint says gently, “please, I want to understand.”

 

Thor continues to stare at the bear without speaking. Clint tries to see the kid in the shape of his nose, in the curve of his jaw, but he _can’t_. He keeps looking, past the face, and discovers something in the slope of his shoulders, in the angle of his bowed head, that tugs at his memories: Little Thor, his face streaked with dirt and tears, after Clint yelled at him and he was afraid he was in trouble.

 

“Did you remember something?”

 

Thor:

 

“Tell us what you remember and we can help you.”

 

Thor’s jaw muscle jumps. Clint hopes it’s his imagination that steam is rising from the bear’s head where Thor’s eyes are boring into it. “I _can’t,”_ he growls through gritted teeth.

 

“Did you remember what they did to ya?” Bucky asks. His voice is rough too, even though he didn’t recently have a tube jammed down his throat like Thor did.

 

Thor’s breathing has picked up speed. He is squeezing the Bucky Bear in his fist. Not the way Little Thor used to hug it, more like he wants to crush it to death. “I _can’t!_ You DONT UNDERSTAND!” A flash of lightning lights up the room, followed almost immediately by the boom of thunder.

 

Bucky squints at Thor. Oh shit, he took that as a challenge, didn’t he? “Yeah? Lemme give it a shot,” he says gruffly. “They took off your clothes. They chained ya to a table—“

 

Thor’s head doesn’t move but his shoulders hunch and his biceps contract. His knuckles are turning white from his grip on the bear. Outside the window, the rain intensifies. Bucky, the clueless asshole, does not notice. “They raped ya,” he finishes, chin up even though his voice breaks slightly on the last word.

 

Thor sits frozen in place. Rain lashes against the window in a staccato beat that matches his tremulous breathing. His chin wrinkles up again, and this time Clint thinks he will cry, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything either, although Clint desperately wants him to. It looks like he _wants_ to say something. His jaw works for a second, then he shakes his head and drops his shoulders. His hair is hanging over his eyes, but Clint can see the pain in the set of his jaw, in his wrinkled chin, in his pressed-together lips. In his fingers that are still white-knuckling the bear, the way Little Thor used to grip the front of Clint’s shirt.

 

Clint’s got that S _omething is squeezing my chest_ feeling again. He wants to say something, anything, to reassure him, but he doesn’t know what to say. So they wait. And wait. And wait, while the rain pours down outside, and Thor sits, head bowed, and plucks at the bear. Clint can see out of the corner of his eye that Bucky’s knee is jiggling impatiently.

 

Finally Bucky reaches into an inner pocket and pulls out a phone. Hey, that’s Clint’s phone! Bucky hands it to Clint, reaches into the pocket again, and pulls out his own phone this time. When he unlocks the phone, Clint catches a glimpse of what looks like one of the pictures Clint texted him (Little Thor sitting on Bucky’s lap, both of them with faces covered in Oreo crumbs, grinning from ear to ear), before Bucky turns the phone away and taps at the screen, one-fingered, like a chicken pecking at the dirt. “Here, try this,” he says, holding the phone out toward Thor, who gives it the side-eye but says nothing.

 

“It’s got feelings on it, see?” Bucky says, pointing. “These here on the left are all the froo-froo pie-in-the-sky ones, and these on the right are all the shitty, real ones.”

 

That’s not exactly how Clint would have put it, but whatever. Getting Thor to talk about his feelings is a good idea, although Clint’s not sure Thor’s going to go for it. After a minute, wherein Thor examines the chart out of the side of his eye while pretending he’s not interested, Bucky continues, “Clint says it’s supposed to be mutual. That means everybody tells what they’re feeling. But Clint’s full of shit ‘cause he never talks about how he’s feeling. So this time he’s gonna go first.” 

 

Wait, what? That’s not the deal. Whoever said that was the deal?

 

Bucky sticks the phone in front of Clint’s face, and Clint’s whole brain locks up like tires on wet pavement. He knows he needs to do it; knows he needs to pick one, but how? There doesn’t seem to be an icon for _Something is Squeezing my Chest_. So he picks sad.

 

Bucky gives him an incredulous look. “Really? All those choices and you pick sad?”

 

“You said to pick one, so I did. What about _you_?”

 

Bucky, who has obviously been putting way too much thought into this, picks _bereft_. Smartass. Clint wants to ask him to define it, but Thor is already eyeing the two of them from under his fringe of wet hair. Observant. It makes the Thing squeezing Clint’s chest grab onto his throat as well.

 

“See, Thor, like that,” Bucky says, holding out the phone to Thor, who takes it without lifting his head. Clint hopes Thor doesn’t grip it as hard as he’s been gripping the bear or it might crack in half. More waiting. . . still waiting. . . waiting. . . 

 

Thor chooses. . . angry, because of course he does. Then he tries to give the phone back, but Bucky pushes his hand back down. “No, squirt, anger is a—uh—a secondary emotion.”

 

The god of Thunder has no visible reaction to being called squirt. He says, “What does that mean?”

 

“It means there’s something else under it. Some other emotion, like are you sad or something? So you gotta pick again.”

 

“Oh.” Thor takes the phone back and scans the screen. Clint watches the one eye he can see through his hair, which almost immediately locks onto the lower right corner. After a moment he moves on, but his gaze keeps moving back to that lower right corner. Clint can’t quite see the screen, so he doesn’t know what’s so interesting down there. And then, abruptly, Thor points to one on the top right and holds the phone out for Bucky.

 

“Frustrated? You feel frustrated? Ok, that’s. . .um. . . good I guess,” Bucky says, taking the phone. It’s clearly obvious Bucky has no idea what he’s doing or what he’s supposed to do next. It’s also equally clear to Clint that Thor didn’t pick the one he really felt.

 

“Hang on,” Clint says, plucking the phone from Bucky’s metal hand. “Let’s try that again, huh?” He puts the phone back into Thor’s hand, and this time leans in enough to see the screen. The right end of the bottom row holds the “shitty, real emotions” of anxious, ashamed, and scared. Clint’s willing to bet cash money that Thor is scared or anxious and doesn’t want to admit it. All those nights of soothing anxious Little Thor through toddler theories and existential crises have honed Clint’s skills at recognizing the signs. Big Thor may not have the corner of his cape hanging out of his mouth, but he’s telegraphing anxiety in every taut muscle.

 

“Thor, you were looking at one of these, right?” Clint says, pointing to the bottom row. Thor just stares at the screen and says nothing. His mouth turns down and his troubled eyebrows pull together in the middle. Now Clint can’t help but see Little Thor, raised on a steady diet of poisonous bullshit and threats of rejection, thinking his father didn’t want him because he was wasn’t brave enough. Clint can’t help but hear his tremulous little voice, “Do you fink I’m too big to get ‘cared at night?”

 

“Thor. . . whatever you’re feeling, it’s perfectly normal,” Clint says carefully. “Your feelings are just your feelings; even sad or scared feelings—they’re not bad, and you’re not bad for having them.”

 

Thor stares at the screen for another minute, then quickly points to ashamed and shoves the phone into Clint’s hand without looking up.

 

“You’re ashamed?” Clint says. Makes sense, he supposes. Even though shame was never part of Little Thor’s repertoire, it isn’t an uncommon reaction to being a victim. _Survivor_. Whatever people call it to make themselves feel like they have some control over their lives again. Clint remembers the intense humiliation he felt, the helplessness, the fear that others would judge him for not being able to stop it. Never mind he was a kid when it happened. Never mind that he wasn’t physically strong enough to push the man away. His stupid brain kept insisting it was his fault and therefore he was worthless and no one could ever love him again. And no one ever proved him wrong, until Laura came along and basically saved his life.

 

“You got no reason to feel ashamed,” Bucky puts in earnestly. Clint turns just enough to communicate a silent message with his eyebrows. That message is _Did you not just hear me tell him that his feelings are normal and ok?!_

 

Bucky clearly doesn’t get it, based on the fact that his eyebrows communicate back, _What?_ Good grief. Clint tries again, but now Bucky spreads his hands like _What the fuck you want??_

 

When Clint glances back at Thor, he is watching them through his lashes and fringe of overgrown hair. His eyes are beyond observant now. They’re . . hollow. Traumatized. Like Little Thor the first night Clint brought him here. Bucky follows his gaze, then Clint hears his breath catch.

 

“Thor? You’re safe here,” Clint says, through the lump that has formed in his throat. “Can you tell us what you’re thinking?”

 

Thor’s hollow eyes drop back down to the bear, but he doesn’t explain. He doesn’t say _anything_ for a really long time. An _excruciatingly_ long time. His fingers rub back and forth against the still-damp corner of the cape. Clint and Bucky wait. And wait.  And wait some more. Bucky raises his eyebrows at Clint in a silent question, and Clint gives him an eyebrow shrug in response.

 

Finally _finally_ Thor drags the corner of the cape under his nose and says in a plaintive voice, barely above a whisper, “I tried to fight them but I couldn’t get away.” Clint’s heart melts into a puddle.

 

“Yeah, I know you did,” he says gently. “Buddy, what they did to you—it wasn’t your fault.”

 

Thor shakes his head and repeats, “You don’t understand.”

 

“I understand you’re feeling violated, and you think that somehow that makes you bad or. . . unworthy. But it’s not true.” 

 

Thor shakes his head and says without looking up, “They—they destroyed my honor.” A tear slides off his nose and lands on the bear, where it soaks into the fur, leaving a dark spot. 

 

Bucky leans forward in his chair. “No, Thor, they didn’t destroy your honor. They destroyed their own honor,” he says, “Nothing they did was your fault. You were a child and defenseless. They hurt you. You didn’t do anything to deserve it.”

 

“You. . . do not understand my culture.”

 

Bucky squints at him. “What the fuck’re you talking about?”

 

“It is. . . shameful for a warrior. The punishment is banishment for life in my culture. My father—” Thor breaks off, breathing too hard and fast through his nose.

 

Uhhh. . . what? Ok, that’s worse. No wonder he was trying to run away. No wonder he didn’t go get his hammer. _Fuck you, Odin. I can’t say I’m sorry you’re dead, but I wish you could see what you did to your son_. Ok, both sons, if Clint’s being honest. 

 

“Thor. . . your culture is fucking _gone_ ,” Bucky says. _Nice, Bucky._ His heart is in the right place. Next they’re going to have to work on his delivery.

 

“You’re part of our family, and in our family the rules are different,” Clint assures him. Thor doesn’t seem to be buying it. Another tear drips onto the bear. He wipes his nose on the corner of the cape without raising his head. 

 

“WE are your culture now. _Us,”_ Bucky says fiercely. “Nobody here is gonna banish you. Not now. Not _ever_.”

 

Thor still just frowns down at the bear. No amount of reassurances can overcome that insidious programming instilled by his father: _You’ll never be good enough. My love and acceptance are conditional, and can be removed at any time, for any reason, even one beyond your control._

 

“Look, Thor,” Clint says, “When I was a kid, it happened to me too. It wasn’t my fault.”

 

“And it wasn’t my fault when they did it to me either,” Bucky chimes in.

 

Thor’s head finally comes up, startled. “This happened to you as well?” he asks, looking back and forth between the two of them but not quite meeting their eyes. They both nod. “Does Steve know?”

 

“Um. . .” Clint glances at Bucky. “Well, he knows about me. And he still accepts me as part of the team.”

 

“Same here,” Bucky says. 

 

Clint is totally not dying of shock right now. He turns to Bucky, eyebrows raised. “Steve knows? How?”

 

“I told him.”

 

“You told him.” Oh god don’t smile don’t smile.

 

“Yes. I told him,” Bucky says in a deliciously defensive tone. Clint is _horrible_ for finding this so amusing.

 

“What’d he say? He start crying?”

 

“. . .Yeah.”

 

“And you survived that?”

 

Bucky cuts his eyes to the side in obvious embarrassment. “Shut up,” he mutters. Clint decides embarrassed Bucky is his favorite Bucky, because his obvious discomfort at having been caught being human is _adorable_.

 

And then Clint catches Thor watching them again through his lashes with those hollow eyes, and he sobers up immediately because he remembers WHY they’re all sitting there soaked to the skin in the middle of the night while the wind howls and the rain pounds against the window. 

 

Bucky leans forward further, elbows on his knees, trying to look into Thor’s face under his shaggy hair. “Point is,” he says in a soft voice, “Point is, whatever other people did to us, we didn’t lose our honor, and neither did you. It doesn’t work that way here. We don't throw people away, no matter what they've done or what kind of shit they've been through.” Ok, Clint has changed his mind—emotionally healthy Bucky is now his favorite Bucky. Counselor Bucky. _Redeemed_ Bucky. Goddammit, for all Clint likes to give Steve shit, he’s gotta give him credit for how he’s pulled Bucky back from the brink with unconditional love.

 

Judging by the look on Thor’s face, he could use a dose of that unconditional love right now.

 

“Thor,” Clint says, leaning in too, “You were brave to tell us what happened. I’m proud of you, and I know your mother would be proud of you too.” Thor stares straight ahead, at a spot between Clint and Bucky. Clint isn’t sure he’s getting through to him, but he plows ahead anyway. “We love you, Thor, and nothing can change that.”

 

Thor’s breathing hitches and his gaze shifts to meet Clint’s for the first time. His face is bigger, and different shaped, but that wobbly lower lip is the same, as are the bright blue eyes brimming with tears. Clint’s heart is about to overflow out his eyes too.

 

Clint slides over on the sofa, not into Thor’s space but close enough to touch. If this were Little Thor, Clint would simply pull him onto his lap, but Little Thor is gone, and Clint's not sure how Thor would react to being snuggled, so he keeps his distance. He holds out his hand, palm up, and waits. For a long time, Thor stares at Clint’s hand, motionless. Finally he looks down at his own hands, which are impossibly huge, then back at Clint’s, then he blinks and the tear spills over, leaving a track down his already damp cheek.

 

Tentatively, Thor reaches out and lays his hand, palm down, on top of Clint’s. His fingers are trembling. “Five,” he whispers.

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

Clint looks around the room and sees the scooter still propped in the corner where it got missed in his cleaning spree. “Scooter,” he says. 

 

Thor’s fingers tighten on the soft fur of the Bucky bear in his lap. “Bear.”

 

“Bucky,” Clint says. He reaches across and takes hold of Bucky’s hand, his metal one, and lays it on top of Thor’s, so their hands are all piled up together with Thor’s bigger one sandwiched in between.

 

“Silver,” Thor says, wrapping his thumb over Bucky’s metal finger.

 

Clint waits. It takes Bucky nearly ten seconds before he says, “Curve.” What the actual fuck, Bucky? Whatever, moving on.

 

Clint finishes them out with “Raindrops on the windows.” The thunder and lightning have died down, but the wind is still howling. Droplets are chasing each other down the windowpane.

 

. . . Breathe. . . 

 

Thor whispers, “Four”. Clint closes his eyes to concentrate on what he feels. . . Cold. Wet pajama bottoms against his thighs. A droplet of rainwater trickling down his neck. While Clint is debating what to say, he hears the sofa creak. He feels the heat from Thor moving closer, and then pressure from Thor’s forehead against his shoulder. Thor’s damp hair tickles Clint’s chin. Clint slides his other hand onto Thor’s head and gently smoothes it down. 

 

“Your hair,” Clint says.

 

“Your hand in my hair,” Thor rasps in a voice that breaks in the middle. He drags in a trembling breath, almost a sob, against Clint’s collar.

 

Bucky doesn’t say anything. After a minute, Clint cracks open an eye and sees that he has his flesh hand against the back of Thor’s neck, brushing away rainwater with his thumb. Bucky says, “Wet.”

 

With Thor's forehead pressed up against his shoulder, Clint doesn’t feel cold any more. Thor’s heat is soaking through his shirt, into his skin, into his bones. “Warm,” he says.

 

. . . Breathe. . . On the inhale, Clint catches a familiar whiff, under the sweat and rain, of baby shampoo in Thor’s hair. He has to take another deep breath to smell it properly. Oh, yeah, that's the stuff.

 

Thor sniffles and says, “Three.” They all sit still and listen. 

 

“Ticking,” Bucky says, because he can’t just say ‘the clock’ like a normal person.

 

The rain has died down considerably, but Clint can still hear the soft patter of drops hitting the window. “Rain,” he says.

 

Thor adjusts his head so his ear is against Clint’s chest. He is still for a moment, then says, “Your heartbeat.” Clint’s got some goddamn dust in his eye again.

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

“Two.” 

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

Clint breathes in lemons and family and _home_.

 

. . . Breathe. . . 

 

. . . Breathe. . .

 

. . . Breathe. . . 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this story, I'd love to read your comment! If you didn't enjoy this story. . . what the heck are you doing reading the final chapter? Go do something productive with your life! :-D


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